


We All Fall Apart

by SqueekaCuomo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gore, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Addiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueekaCuomo/pseuds/SqueekaCuomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After death comes life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

> **Content/Enticements:** Minor character death, gory imagery, depression, references to past addiction  
>  **Author's Notes:** From the moment I started writing this I was extremely inspired. So inspired that the story took on a life of its own, lol. I hope that you all enjoy it. Merry Christmas! :)

****

**We All Fall Apart**

The sunlight shone through his hair, highlighting the deep golds and rich browns as the wind whipped the strands around his face. The man’s mouth curved into a wide smile and Harry could hear him laughing - at what, he didn’t know. But then again, he didn’t really care. Jude’s laugh was so light, so free, that it always caused Harry to laugh as well. It was an infectious sound; low and gruff, almost like it was bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, coursing its way through his entire body before finally making it out for everyone to hear.

It was one of the most beautiful sounds Harry had ever heard in his life.

It warmed him to the core, even as the wind bit at his cheeks and nose.

“Jude!” Harry called out, and the name was infused with his own laughter. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Jude’s American accent was filled with mocking, his bright blue eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“We have to get back to…” Harry’s voice drifted off. He knew that they were supposed to be doing something, going somewhere, but he couldn’t seem to remember just what was so important. 

“What _exactly_ do we have to get back to?” Jude crossed his arms over his chest, hiding the faded logo of some muggle band. His hair still whipped around his face, giving him the look of a windswept lion.

“I…” Harry wracked his brain, trying desperately to remember what he was in such a hurry to get back to. The harder he tried to remember, though, the further away the memory seemed to be. “I can’t remember. Wrackspurt got it, I guess.”

Jude stared at him, a mixture of amusement and confusion crossing his face. “I’m sorry - a _what_ got it?” He chuckled, the warm sound reaching down to the depths of Harry’s soul.

“A…just forget it.” Harry shook his head, as much to try and clear his thoughts as to rid himself of the spell of Jude’s laugh.

“No way, you’re not getting away that easily.” Jude eyed him, making it clear that he meant what he said. “Tell me…” 

Knowing that he’d lost the battle, Harry rolled his eyes. “A wrackspurt. It’s just something an old friend from school used to say.”

“Uh-huh.” Jude nodded, waiting for Harry to continue. 

“A wrackspurt is an invisible creature that floats into your ear…” As Jude’s eyebrows rose, Harry finished his explanation in a single breath, “and makes your brain go fuzzy.” Jude’s eyebrows climbed higher and Harry felt his cheeks flush in defense of his friend. “She and her father are a bit eccentric, alright?” It came out sounding more defensive that he’d meant, but he wasn’t going to let anyone mock Luna or her father.

Jude pressed his lips together as he considered Harry. “I can tell she means a lot to you.”

“Yes, she does.” Harry nodded, desperate for a change of subject. Things had been going so well. He didn’t want to spoil it now.

“Alright, so a _wrackspurt_ got you.” Jude nodded solemnly, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. “So, tell me, what was this oh-so important thing we needed to get back to?”

Harry shook his head. “I honestly can’t remember.” For some reason, the fact that he couldn’t recall what they were supposed to be doing hadn’t bothered him until now. What _were_ they supposed to be doing? And for that matter, where _were_ they? 

Taking a step away from Jude, Harry looked around himself for what felt the first time since Jude’s hair had caught his eye. He’d thought they were in Diagon Alley. Or was it Hogsmeade? Either way, he hadn’t expected to look around and see the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. How in the name of Merlin had they gotten here? And how had they gotten here without him noticing? 

Something felt… _wrong_.

 _Really_ wrong.

Instantly, Harry’s muscled seized up, his hand reaching instinctively for his wand. “Jude.” Harry’s voice was low, warning. “We have a problem.”

Jude brushed his hair out of his face, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “What are you talking about, Harry? Everything is fine.” He looked at Harry, his blue eyes shining in the sunlight.

“Look around you…how did we get here?” Harry spoke through clenched teeth, his voice low and harsh. 

Jude looked around them, taking in the pitch and the waving house banners. “You know, I was kind of hoping that you were going to tell me that. Is this your old school?” He spun around, taking in the different colored stands. “It really is amazing here. Our pitch wasn’t nearly as big.”

“Listen to me, we are in serious trouble.” Harry took a few tentative steps towards Jude, his eyes trained on his partner. “Draw your wand, we need to be ready.”

“Wand?” Jude looked into Harry’s eyes, confusion on his face. “Why would I need my wand out here?”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, threatening to rip through his rib cage. Something was coming and the anticipation felt like sharp claws running down his back. “ _Jude_.” His voice, tense with fear and anticipation, finally caught his partner’s attention.

“Harry?” The joy had left Jude’s eyes, leaving them empty and afraid. Even his hair had fallen still around his shoulders. He looked terrified, the severity of the situation finally getting to him. “Something is…” He flinched, as if in pain. “Harry, something is…” He crumpled to the ground, curling in on himself.

“Jude!” Harry fell to the ground beside his partner, grabbing his shoulders. His heart continued to thud painfully as he looked into Jude’s eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He pulled Jude closer, suddenly desperate to be as close to him as possible.

“Harry, I…” Beneath his fingers, Harry could feel Jude’s shoulder muscles contract instantly. From the look on his partner’s face, Jude was in excruciating pain. 

“Jude?” Harry felt helpless, desperation threatening to overwhelm him. He could tell that his partner was in trouble, but he didn’t know what the problem was or how to stop it. With each passing second, his tension worsened, and panic began to muddle his thoughts. What was wrong with Jude? How could he help? He needed answers, but none were forthcoming.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong.” Emotion choked his voice as, against all protocols, he drew Jude close. He knew it couldn’t have felt good; the pressure likely made the pain worse, but Harry _needed_ to feel Jude in his arms. He needed to be there for him, even if it wasn’t standard operating procedure.

He pulled back slightly, looking into Jude’s normally bright blue eyes. Instead of shining with laughter they were completely red, as if all of the veins had burst. No sooner had that thought crossed Harry’s mind than bloody tears began to flow from the eyes he’d come to… _No_. Even in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to use the word _love_. It just wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be in love with another man. 

Terrified of the thoughts racing through his mind and worried about what was happening, Harry searched Jude’s face for some sign that everything was going to be ok. All he found was a once-handsome face tight with pain and stained with bloody tears. The sight caused Harry’s heart to stop for just a second. “Jude, _please_ …” He was begging, he knew he was begging, but at that moment, that was _all_ he could do.

In the back of Harry’s mind there was a tiny voice telling him to call for back up, to try a counter spell, to search for the origins of whatever was happening, but he couldn’t. All he could do was hold onto his partner of three years, hoping that some miracle would stop whatever was going on.

But a miracle just wasn’t in the tea leaves.

Jude coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, “Harry…” 

“Shhh,” Harry felt his throat constrict. He was _not_ going to cry. This was going to be over soon, and Jude would be smiling at him again. There was no reason to cry. With a trembling hand he pushed a few stray strands of gold out of Jude’s face; as he did, the blood from his eyes smeared, staining his tanned skin crimson. “It’s going to be alright, just hold on.”

Another cough. Another wave of blood. “No, Harry.” Jude pressed his eyes shut as he bit back a gasp. “I want you to know that…”

“Jude, please.” Again, Harry begged, hating himself for it. 

Jude grabbed Harry’s hand, pulling it away from his bloody hair, gripping so painfully Harry could barely stand it. “Harry, I…” 

For a second, Jude looked into Harry’s eyes, whatever he’d wanted to say frozen on his open mouth. Harry wanted to shake his partner, to ask him what so important, but before he could even blink, Jude fell apart in his arms. 

To Harry, it was like watching someone being splinched into a million little pieces. One second Jude was there, in his arms; the next he was nothing more than a pile of blood and unidentifiable bits and blobs. 

Frozen, unable to respond, Harry sat in the grass, his arms still cradling the air. He frantically took in the empty space where his partner had just been, but instead of finding Jude, there was blood. So much blood. Harry was covered in it, his jeans soaked through to skin with the hot, sticky liquid; his arms and hands dripping, his shirt stuck to his skin. And everywhere he looked there were pieces…teeny, tiny pieces that resembled neither flesh, nor bone, but were human just the same.

Before he could stop it, a primal scream filled with shock and loss ripped through his body, searing his throat and pulling him into consciousness. 

Still screaming, Harry fought his bedclothes as he tried to sit up. He was soaked to the bone, his sweat matting his hair and what he would deny were tears running down his face. Body trembling, he stumbled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, just managing to get the toilet seat up before he spilled his guts into the bowl. He heaved once, twice, three times before he was able to pull himself away from it. 

Pressing his back into the wall, Harry forced himself to take deep breaths in an effort to still the trembling of his limbs and his thudding heart. It had been like this for almost a year now. The dreams - nightmares, whatever they were - weren’t always _this_ bad, but on the nights that they were…

Pitching himself forward, Harry shoved his head into the toilet bowl once again as another wave of vomiting took hold of him. When his stomach had finally calmed down, he pressed his forehead into the cold rim of the toilet, inhaling the smell of vomit and toilet water. It was enough to cause his stomach to protest with a fresh bought of nausea, but it was _real_ and it ground him in the moment.

He was ok. He was alive. He was safe and sound in his tiny flat in muggle London. 

He wasn’t on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, and he wasn’t covered in blood and human detritus. 

He was _ok_. 

Or…he would be. Eventually. 

Flushing the toilet, Harry stood up and flicked on the lights. As soon as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror he wished he’d left them off. His vision was blurry, but he looked ghastly. His face was impossibly pale, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes had a hollow, haunted look about them that reminded him of the empty sockets of the dementors. 

Unable to stand the sight any longer, he turned on the tap and dunked his face in the freezing cold water in attempt to wash away the sweat, tears, and terror. Closing his eyes, he splashed his skin, scrubbing at his cheeks and eyes; before turning off the tap, he rinsed out his mouth, trying to rid himself of the acrid taste of bile.

When he looked in the mirror again, Harry was unsurprised to find that he looked the same as he had before. His face still bore the panicked look of one reliving a past trauma and his perpetually messy hair was matted to his forehead. He looked worn about the edges, like an old t-shirt that has seen better days. His cheeks were thinner than normal – sunken, even - from lack of appetite, and he had a few grays flecking his jet black hair; from stress or age, he didn’t know. And his eyes, his eyes looked…

Dead.

But this was nothing new. His eyes had been lifeless for the better part of a year and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon. 

Turning away from the mirror, Harry headed back into his bedroom, tossing his sheets and comforter back on the bed as he did. A quick glance at the clock told him it was just after three in the morning. He wasn’t surprised; the dreams always happened around this time. He was, however, torn. 

After his last nightmare, Ron and Hermione had made him swear on Dumbledore’s grave to call the next time he had one, no matter the hour. At the time, he’d sworn, telling them what they wanted to hear without really meaning the words. But now, alone in his tiny flat, haunted by his nightmares, he needed someone. He _needed_ to hear another person’s voice, and to have them tell him that everything would be ok in the morning. 

Even if he didn’t believe them. 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Harry pulled his mobile off the charger and rung up Ron. It still seemed strange, after all of these years, to be calling him on the telephone. But when Ron and Hermione had moved in together she’d insisted on a few muggle conveniences, one of which was a telephone. Thankfully, Ron had learned how to properly communicate over the phone years ago, but Harry knew that the electronic device still made him vaguely uncomfortable.

The phone rang, and for a moment, part of Harry hoped that no one would pick up on the other end. It was stupid; he’d only had a dream, and he was a grown man. His shaking hands, however, told another story. This hadn’t just been a dream, and the more sensible part of Harry knew that he _had_ to hear a real, live, human voice. 

“Ha…Harry?” Ron’s voice was thick with sleep, but he’d answered. That alone was enough to help slow the beating of Harry’s heart. “What is it? What’s wrong? Wait…” Harry could hear the sound of movement in the background and Ron whispering, “Go back to sleep, ‘Mione. It’s Harry. I’ve got it.” Harry waited as he listened to the sounds of Ron getting out of bed and heading into another room. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate.” Ron sounded more awake, but still groggy. “It’s just, the phone rings, Hermione wakes up, you know…”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Harry understood, but he still felt guilty about calling. “I, um…”

“You had another nightmare?” Ron’s voice was knowing, understanding. There was no judgment or mocking in his tone and Harry found himself sighing in relief.

“Yeah, I did.” He reached up and pushed his bangs off his forehead, his palm grazing the ridge of his scar as he did.

“Was this one as bad as the last?” From the sound of it, Ron was getting himself something to eat and Harry imagined that it was leftovers from his mum. Normally, that thought would have made him chuckle, but not tonight. 

“Worse.” The word escaped on a gasp and Harry fought back the aching burn of tears that clenched his throat. He didn’t even bother trying to say more.

“It’s ok; you did the right thing ringing me.” Ron’s voice came out through the muffle of food. “Tell me about it.”

“What’s to tell?” He choked out the words. “Jude was laughing, I was laughing, and then suddenly…”

“And then suddenly.” Ron’s voice was calm and final. There was no need to finish re-counting the nightmare. 

Harry whispered, “Yeah,” unable to come up with anything better.

“Look, I think that…” Ron’s voice trailed off for a second and Harry could practically hear his best mate thinking through the phone. “It’s been a year.”

“Almost a year,” Harry corrected. It would be a year come December. They weren’t there yet.

“Fine, _almost_ a year.” Ron sounded exasperated by the correction. “Don’t you think that maybe you’re doing this to yourself?” Harry gasped and Ron cut in before he could speak. “No, listen… It’s been _almost_ a year since Jude died, and that’s awful, but you’ve locked yourself away. We haven’t seen you in weeks, and the last time we did see you, you looked like walking death.” 

Ron paused for a second, but Harry didn’t respond. He’d been hoping that talking to Ron would make him feel better. Instead, he just felt defeated.

“You quit your job at the Ministry. You hardly ever leave that tiny flat of yours. Hermione and Ginny are worried sick and so is mum.” Ron’s voice was upset. “It’s like you’re, I don’t know, waiting to die over there or something.”

Harry couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “I’m not waiting to _die_ , I’ve just…”

“I know, you’ve _just_.” Ron took a deep breath, almost like he was bracing himself for what he was about to say. “Look mate, I hate to say this to you, but it’s time for you to move on.”

“Move on?” Harry couldn’t stop the anger that was boiling under his skin from seeping into his words.

“Yes. Move. On.” Ron’s tone was stern. “Harry, you’ve mourned him. It’s time for you to get back to your life. He wouldn’t have wanted this for you, you know that.”

Yes, Harry did know that, but it didn’t make the words any easier to hear. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I _am_ right and you know it.” Once again, Ron’s voice sounded muffled with food. Harry imagined that he was swallowing before he spoke again. “I think that you should take the job.”

“Ron, no.” Harry looked through the relative darkness of his bedroom. It was a mess - dirty clothes strewn here and there, his bed linens a soaked, rumpled heap. It looked pitiful. “I’m not ready.”

“You’ll never be ready.” Ron’s tone was matter-of-fact and Harry recognized the truth in his words. 

“I can’t.” His protest was weak, even to his own ears, but the thought of going back to work, going back out into the world, terrified him.

“You defeated Voldemort. You can go back to work.” Ron snorted. “Harry Potter. The Man Who Was Afraid to Leave His Flat.”

“Ha. Ha.” The words were sarcastic, but Harry felt the tension slipping out of his body. 

“Take the job, Harry. It’ll be good for you.” The sound of a chair scraping over wooden floorboards echoed through the phone. “Look, I’m glad you called, but I need to get back to bed. Some of us have to work tomorrow.”

Harry knew that Ron wasn’t trying to be rude, so he nodded into the darkness. “Yeah, ok.”

“You sure you’re alright? I don’t need to send mum and Hermione over there, do I?” Where Ron had been joking and sarcastic before, there was now concern in his voice.

“I’m ok.” And he was. The beating of his heart had slowed and his hands were steadier. 

“Good man.” Harry could practically see Ron nodding at the other end of the phone. “Listen, I’m serious about you going back to work, right?”

“Right.” Harry knew that Ron was right, but that didn’t make the idea of leaving his flat any easier. As he hung up the phone and crawled back into bed, Harry wondered when Ron Weasley had become the voice of reason.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“Time to get up!” Harry was brought suddenly and cruelly back to consciousness as his comforter was ripped from his body. “There’ll be no more of this, Harry Potter. Out of bed. _Now_.” Waking with a jolt, Harry shielded his eyes from the sunlight that was streaming through his bedroom window. As he sat there, eyes covered, he thought it odd that he hadn’t reached for his wand first; years as an Auror had ingrained that habit in him. That he hadn’t could only mean that he knew this intruder, recognized their voice subconsciously. “I said _up_.” He practically toppled to the floor as his sheets were ripped out from under him.

“Whaaaa….” Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Harry found himself lying on his naked mattress, trying to figure out who was assaulting him. This was _not_ how he’d planned on starting his morning. “What’s going on?” He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them of sleep. 

He reached over to his bedside table, his hand landing instinctively on his glasses. After shoving them roughly onto his face, he found himself face-to-face with a harried-looking Hermione. Her bushy brown hair was in a braid that fell just past her shoulders, and it was no calmer now that it had been at Hogwarts. But apart from her hair being longer and her body being fuller, she looked pretty much the same as she had in school.

“You get out of that bed right this instant.” Her penchant for bossiness hadn’t changed either - much to his and Ron’s chagrin. 

Harry stuck his hand in his rumpled hair, trying to make sense of the situation. “Hermione, how’d you -”

“Never mind that now.” She flicked her wand at his bed linens and they shuddered, as if resisting whatever spell she was trying to use on them. “Up. Now.” When she started brandishing her wand at _him_ , Harry jumped out of bed. “That’s more like it. Shower time, off you get.”

Harry tried to protest, but he wasn’t about to argue when there was a wand pointed in his direction. Throwing his arms up in the air in mock surrender, he headed towards the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, Harry took a second to try and figure out just what was happening. 

It didn’t take him long to realize what had caused this.

Ron.

Oh, Ron hadn’t wanted to wake Hermione last night, but of course he’d have told her everything come morning. And now here she was, Hurricane Hermione, doing her best impression of Molly. He supposed he should have been upset that Ron hadn’t kept his mouth shut, but after almost two decades of friendship, this came as no surprise to him at all. In fact, the fact that his friends were rallying behind him took him back to the days when nothing was more important than figuring out who had the Sorcerer’s Stone or how to get past a dragon. 

It was comforting to know that their bond had survived childhood and well into adulthood. 

Placing his glasses on the sink, Harry stripped out of his sweat-stained clothes and climbed into the shower. The moment the hot water met his skin he felt his muscles relax from tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He scrubbed away the salty layer of dried sweat that covered his body and brushed away the lingering taste of vomit that coated his mouth. By the time he stepped out of the shower the water was cold and his mirror was fogged over. But he was clean, cleaner than he had been in quite a while. He felt refreshed, if not totally over the night before.

After tossing his dirty pajama pants into the laundry basket, Harry pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt that Hermione must have cleaned and had managed to sneak into the bathroom while he was showering. Using his towel, he cleared away the mist before taking a look at himself. Though blurry, he looked a little better than the night before. His hair was damp, but clean. His skin wasn’t so pale. And putting his glasses on revealed that his eyes didn’t look quite as haunted as before. 

It was an improvement he could deal with.

He’d only taken one step out of the bathroom when his senses were seduced by the smells of hot coffee, sizzling sausages, and toast. Mouth watering, he let his feet (and grumbling stomach) lead him to the kitchen, barely noticing that his bed was freshly made and his dirty clothes all picked up.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Hermione was flicking her wand at three eggs that were cracking themselves over a frying pan. The second they hit metal they began to sizzle. Taking a seat at the small dining table, Harry practically moaned in pleasure as a mug of steaming coffee (two lumps of sugar, no cream) came zooming towards him. Not a drop spilt, the coffee landed right in front of him, and Harry didn’t waste any time in picking up the mug. The liquid was scalding hot and he barely managed more than a sip, but it tasted heavenly. 

He was just about to thank Hermione when a plate laden with toast and sausage, with a space left for the frying eggs, landed in front of him. Reaching for the blackberry jam, he looked over at his best friend. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was appraising him speculatively. “What?”

“You look better than I thought you would.” With another flick of her wand, the eggs joined the toast and sausages on his plate. 

“Er…” He didn’t know what to say to that, so he focused on smearing his toast with butter and preserves instead. 

Hermione prepared her own mug of coffee and sat down at the table next to him. For a few moments they sat in silence, Harry shoveling food into his mouth and Hermione watching him with hawkish eyes. Before long, though, it became too much for Harry. 

“Yeah?” It came out surprisingly clear given the eggs in his mouth.

“This has to stop, Harry.” Hermione’s hands were wrapped around her coffee mug and she was looking at him with tired eyes. Harry wondered just how long she’d been there with him.

His appetite suddenly gone, he dropped the piece of sausage between his fingers back on the plate. They’d talked about this before, had had this conversation _many_ times, but somehow this felt different. “Hermione.”

“No, Harry, listen to me.” Her gaze hardened. “I know about last night -”

“Of course you do.” Harry sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“Don’t pull that, you knew Ron would tell me.” Truer words were never spoken. 

Harry nodded.

“This has been going on for far too long. You look terrible. Your flat is a mess. You’re not working. As far I know, you never even leave here unless you absolutely must.” She gestured towards the room. “Look around you, Harry. You’re not living. _This_ is not _living_!”

Harry was tempted to get up and leave the room. He didn’t need this this morning. What he needed was a friend, not an intervention.

“Ron and I have been talking and I told him that you should take the job offer.” She held up a hand before Harry could protest. “It might not be what you want to do with the rest of your life, but I think it would be good for you right now.”

“You told Ron all of this?” Arms still crossed over his chest, but loosening, he watched her speculatively.

“Yes, just the other night…why?” She watched him, confusion on her face.

Harry smirked, feeling oddly comforted knowing that Ron hadn’t become a font of wisdom overnight. “No reason.”

Hermione looked confused, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Anyway…the job.”  
Unfolding his arms, Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table and head in hands. “I can’t.”

“You can.” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And you will.”

Harry uncovered his face, looking into Hermione’s. “It’ll be hard, but you need to get on with your life, Harry. Maybe…maybe even start dating someone new?” She bit down on her lower lip, worrying the soft flesh.

“Right, cause there are _sooo_ many girls at Hogwarts my age.” He rolled his eyes, thinking of his options. Last he’d heard, McGonagall and Sprout were still around. The thought caused him to shudder a little.

Hermione pressed her lips together and tightened her grip on his arm. Whatever she was about to say, it wasn’t going to be pleasant for either of them. “I didn’t mean a girl.”

Harry pulled back in shock, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open. “What?”

“Listen to me, Harry…” She took a deep breath. “I think that…that part of the reason why Jude’s death has been so hard on you is because…” Hermione looked down at the table top before finishing in a rush, “is because you _cared_ for each other.”

“Of course we cared for each other; we were partners for three years.” He looked at her suspiciously. 

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Hermione considered him and Harry wondered just what was going through her sharp mind. “Do you remember the Christmas dinner we had last year?”

“Of course I do, I’m not thick.” His irritation was starting to rise; he wished she’d get to the point already.

“You and Jude…you kissed.” She looked at him, apology in her eyes.

Was this what she was trying to say? “Yeah…we were both drunk and Seamus had charmed that mistletoe… We weren’t the only two who ended up snogging under it.”

“I think that it’s time you admit you weren’t as drunk as you thought.” Her voice was low. “I watched you two that night; you barely drank any of the firewhisky you ordered. And Jude hadn’t been drinking at all.”

Harry recoiled as if he’d been slapped. The memory of the party filled his mind instantly. 

He’d gone out with Jude, Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Neville, and Hannah for drinks a few days before Christmas. With the exception of Neville, they’d all been working at the Ministry in various departments. They’d headed to a small pub, The Golden Dragon, to blow off some steam and celebrate the coming holiday. They’d laughed, reminisced, drank, and laughed some more. Sometime during the evening Seamus had charmed a small sprig of mistletoe to bounce among their heads, refusing to leave until its two chosen victims had kissed. 

Hannah and Neville had shared a quick peck, and Ron had tried to swallow Hermione’s face whole (a fact that hadn’t amused her). But the kiss that had had the whole group hooting and hollering was the one he’d shared with Jude.

It had started as a joke, Seamus teasing them about being partners. But as Jude had looked into his eyes, Harry had felt something deep within his stomach start to warm. It was a feeling he’d often experienced around Ginny when they’d still been Hogwarts, but hadn’t felt in many years. At the time he’d thought it was the alcohol swirling though his veins and nothing more. 

The joke had quickly become a dare and before he knew what was happening, they were leaning towards one another…

Harry’s breath had quickened just a bit and he had felt his eyelids fluttering shut. Before they closed, though, he heard Jude whisper, his voice thick, “Harry, we don’t have to do this. This doesn’t need to happen this way.” Ignoring the words, Harry had pressed his mouth gently against Jude’s. Jude had responded instantly, his lips moving softly beneath Harry’s own.

Harry had felt a warmth spread from the top of head to his toes as Jude parted his lips slightly, to gently tease Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth. Harry had moaned, to the applause of his friends, and to his own embarrassment. He’d told himself it was because he was drunk and not because the feel of Jude’s lips against his had caused him to melt from the inside out. 

All too soon, Jude had pulled away, but not before pressing their lips fully together once more. That last kiss had felt reverent, like a promise. 

But it had been a promise that Harry hadn’t dared think about.

And a week later, Jude had died.

Harry rarely let himself think about that night. It hurt too much.

“Harry?” Hermione sounded worried and Harry wondered how long he’d been sitting there. He looked at her, but he was still stuck in the past, remembering the feel of Jude’s lips against his. “I think it’s time for you to consider just what Jude really meant to you. And what that might mean for your future…”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The rest of Harry’s morning passed easily enough. Hermione stuck around for a few hours helping Harry clean. She offered to help him pack for Hogwarts, but he told her no. He said it was because he wanted to take his time going through everything, but really, he’d said no because there was a _tiny_ part of him that wasn’t ready to crawl out of the hole he’d created, no matter what he’d told his friends.

After she’d left, Harry plopped down on his couch and flipped on the telly. He spent most of the afternoon with reruns providing a pitiful soundtrack to his thoughts. 

After Jude’s death, Harry had replayed that day a million times in his mind; if the memory had been a sneakoscope, it would have worn out from overuse. But all of the good memories, memories of drinks after a long day at work, the Holyhead Harpies games where they had cheered on Ginny…those he’d locked away. From the moment he’d first locked himself in his flat he’d refused to allow himself to think of the happy times they’d shared. Because those memories hurt worse, and cut more deeply, than thoughts of his death ever could. 

They were constant reminders of what he’d had, what _they’d_ had. 

They were constant reminders of what he’d lost.

Friendship. Camaraderie. Trust. Partnership. He had all of those things with Ron and Hermione, but with Jude, it was different. 

Jude had transferred from the American offices to the Ministry and been partnered with Harry straight away. Harry had told him all about Hogwarts, explained the politics of the Ministry of Magic, and took him on his first trips to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. For that reason, Harry had come to feel responsible for him, like Jude was _his_.

At the time he’d thought that was just how partners looked out for each other. But now, after what Hermione had said…Harry wasn’t so sure. 

For two of the three years that he and Jude had been partners, Harry had been dating Ginny. Things had changed slowly, and had started out small; a missed lunch date, a headache instead of an afternoon together in bed. Before Harry knew it, they’d drifted apart. They’d stopped communicating, stopped touching, stopped _loving_. Their split had been mutual, and much too easy given the history they shared, and the love that they were _supposed_ to share. They had parted as friends, and were closer now than they had been during the last year of their relationship.

But what about that last year of his and Jude’s partnership? 

It wasn’t like they’d flirted, or anything like that. And Harry certainly hadn’t found himself gazing wistfully at Jude. Sure…there had been moments when their hands had touched and lingered, there’d been the occasion hug, and one that had been far tighter than was strictly friendly and had lasted long past what was normal for a hug between two men. But that didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

The more that Harry tried to deny it, though, the more he began to see, to remember. Jude staying the night on his sofa when Harry had broken things off with Ginny, had Jude seemed just a tiny bit relieved?  
Jude rubbing his back soothingly as they waited for the healers at St. Mungos to tell them if Teddy would recover from his illness.

Then there’d been the morning coffees before reporting to the office. The first few times had been merely coincidence, two people running into each other outside of work. But it had quickly turned into them showing up five minutes early, then ten, and then a half-hour, under the guise of requiring caffeine to properly start the day. 

It had seemed logical to Harry, looking forward to spending time with a friend before work. They would talk about their evenings or weekends, discuss cases or upcoming holidays. Those few minutes every morning had calmed Harry, centered him, and he’d always thought that it had been because of the caffeine.

Harry’s mind was reeling, recalling their morning coffee dates, wondering at the fact that he was thinking of them as _dates_ of any sort. Before his thoughts could go any further, though, his mobile rang out, causing him to jump. 

Cursing, Harry pulled the phone out of his pocket, not bothering to check the caller ID before he answered it. There were only a handful of people who had his number, so it didn’t seem important to check. “Hullo?”

As soon as he heard the voice at the other end of line, however, Harry wished he hadn’t been so careless. 

“Harry?” The voice was unsure, like he was wondering if he’d dialed the wrong number by mistake.

Harry pressed his eyes shut, wondering why he hadn’t looked at the caller ID. “Dudley.” It wasn’t Christmas, what could he possibly want?

“I…” Dudley’s voice trailed off, like he was trying to find the right words; Harry instantly thought of the blank expression that would cross his face when they were younger. “I have a, er, a _problem_.”

It was Harry’s turn to sound confused. “Um… And you’re calling me why?”

“It has to do with…” Dudley’s voice dropped a bit before he finished. “ _Your_ lot.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Insult aside, he was curious. “ _My_ lot?” Harry knew that he was baiting his cousin, but he just couldn’t help himself.

Thankfully, Dudley hadn’t caught on. “Yes, you know…” His voice dropped even lower now. “People with… _magic_.” He made a shuddering sound, just like many witches and wizards still did after hearing Voldemort’s name. While Dudley had matured in the past 13 years, he was still not completely rid of his parents’ prejudices. 

“Yes, I know what you mean.” Harry rolled his eyes dramatically. “What’s the problem?” He knew, before the words were out of his mouth, that he didn’t want to hear the answer to that question.

“My little Fernie - a letter came for her today.” Dudley’s voice was shaking, like he was terrified of something.

“A letter?” Harry reached up and rumpled his hair. “What’s so-”

Dudley interrupted, “An _owl_ brought it.”

“Oh.” Now Harry understood why Dudley was calling. His daughter, Fern Dursley, as round and piggy as he father, had received a letter of acceptance from Hogwarts. How in the name of Merlin had that happened?

“I don’t know what to do. Her mother hasn’t seen it; she doesn’t know anything about _you_. I managed to get it away from the owl before she could see it.” Dudley sounded frantic. “She’s supposed to be _normal_.”

That last comment rubbed Harry the wrong way. 

Since their parting years ago, he’d thought things had changed between them - and they had. They would never be best friends, but at least now they were civil to each other. That, however, did not change the fact that he’d put up with _years_ of this attitude from the Dursleys. Now that he was an adult, he was done with it. “While this has been a _fascinating_ chat, Dudley, I need to get going. I’m sure your Fern is just fine.”

“No!” Dudley shouted into the phone. “What do I do about this?”

Harry tightly gripped the mobile in his hand. “Send her to Hogwarts, where she can get proper training.” He hated himself for even suggesting a Dursley should set foot in Hogwarts. “Or send her to Smeltings. I’m sure she’ll do great - and your parents will be _so_ proud.”

“ _Smeltings Academy_ ,” Dudley took a deep breath and Harry imagined steam coming out of his ears. “Is an all _boys_ school.”

Harry fought back a snort. “Ah, well then. Find a different school and send her there. Problem solved.”

“I’ve already thought of that. But strange things have started happening around her.” Dudley’s voice dropped to a frightened whisper again. “Weird, unnatural things, like when you were around. And what about the _letters_? Won’t they keep coming if I ignore them? Like when… Like with…”

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed audibly. “Dudley -”

Once again, Dudley interrupted him. “I thought that maybe _you _could train her up a bit. Not actually _teach_ her any… _spells_.” The word came out sounding like something disgusting. “Just teach her how to control _it_.”__

__At that moment, Harry made a choice. Or really, the decision was made for him. He was _not_ about to try and teach a magical child how to control their power. It was an insult to him and to her. Witches and wizards were _not_ animals, they didn’t need to be controlled, they needed to learn how to use the power responsibly. And rather than telling Dudley off and ruining the small peace that had forged between them, Harry finally accepted his fate. “Can’t.” _ _

__“What do you mean you can’t?” Dudley’s voice was a mixture of anger and fear._ _

__Harry took a deep breath before saying, “I’m going back to Hogwarts. I leave in a few days.”_ _

____

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

August twenty-fifth. The day of his departure for Hogwarts.

In the past few days, Harry had packed up what he needed and paid his rent a few months in advance. He still wasn’t sure this would all work out, and he wanted a place to go back to. Just in case. He’d also said his goodbyes to Ron and Hermione, who’d both told him how proud they were of his decision to get on with his life. They’d even offered to throw a going-away party, but Harry had refused on the grounds that he wasn’t going away forever and that he wasn’t in the mood. 

He’d sent his things along with a few of the Hogwarts owls the night before. Now all that was left was for him was to apparate to Hogsmeade and then walk up to the castle. Headmistress McGonagall had offered him a carriage from the village to the school in the letter she’d sent. Harry, however, had declined; he wasn’t in the mood to see the milky-white eyes of a thestral staring back at him. The winged creatures hadn’t bothered him before, but Jude’s death was still too raw for Harry to be comfortable with them.

Looking around his apartment one last time, Harry took a deep breath. Ron and Hermione were right; it was time for him to move on. Turning on the spot, he felt the familiar and awful tug at the back of his navel. A few seconds later he stumbled, gasping, next to Honeydukes. He’d never really been a fan of apparition, and it seemed like his skills had waned in the past few months, as he’d rarely left his flat. Still coughing, Harry was glad that he’d decided to send his things along ahead of him. Trying to apparate with luggage would have been a disaster.

Shaking off the last of his disorientation, Harry headed for Hogwarts. He was tempted to pop into Honeydukes and The Three Broomsticks, but thought better of it. He was out of his flat - out of London - and that was enough for one day. He’d have time to explore the village later, if he was feeling up to it. Plus, he still had to unpack his bags and get himself situated. The start of term was only a few days away. 

As he walked towards Hogwarts, Harry was filled with the same stomach-turning dread that he’d had prior to the start of first year. What if everyone else knew more than him? What if everyone else was more prepared? What if he just wasn’t _good_ enough?

The problem with his fears _this_ time was that they were completely possible. He’d accepted the job extremely late, leaving himself very little time to prepare, whereas the rest of the professors had had the entire summer to lesson-plan. He truly was - before his post had even started - behind. And the worst part was that he had absolutely no idea where to begin. 

Picking up his pace, Harry all but ran to the castle, hoping that there was still time to get ready for the start of term.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“Harry!” Hagrid, his hair grayer and his face more lined, waited just inside the entrance. Before Harry could respond, he found himself wrapped in a bone-crushing hug. “It’s good ter see yeh again, Harry.”

His arms pinned to his sides, Harry awkwardly tried to pat Hagrid with his hand. “It’s good to see you too, Hagrid.” And it was. Though he and Hagrid kept in touch by owl and saw one another from time to time, it had been far too long since they’d really caught up with each other. Being trapped in Hagrid’s hug made Harry feel safe; like his worries were for nothing and that everything would be fine.

Hagrid released Harry, who felt as if all of his ribs had been broken. Despite Harry’s being an adult, Hagrid’s hugs were still formidable. “I asked Professor McGonagall if I could show yeh ter yer room meself.” He beamed at Harry, the eyes corners of his eyes crinkling.

“That…” Harry rubbed his side, “that’s great.” And it was. He had no clue where the professors slept. He’d always assumed that they had quarters near their classrooms, but he wasn’t sure. In his time at Hogwarts he’d only ever visited the teachers in the lounge or in Dumbledore’s office. 

“Got yer things?” Hagrid looked around Harry for his trunk.

For some reason, Harry found himself looking as well. “I sent them along a few days ago.”

“Alright, then.” Hagrid set off towards the staircase and Harry followed. “How yeh been since…”

“Fine.” Harry’s voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be, but he didn’t want to talk about Jude or the past (almost) year. He’d come to Hogwarts to forget, to start over, not to retell his tale. 

Hagrid, thankfully, didn’t call him on his tone. Instead, he nodded knowingly. “I suspected as much.” They rounded a corner and Harry found that they were in the Dark Arts corridor. “I’m not surprised. Yeh’ve had a tough time of it.”

That, Harry thought to himself, was a dragon-sized understatement.

“Don’t yeh worry, though.” Hagrid stopped in front of the entrance to the Dart Arts classroom. But he didn’t go inside. Instead, he faced the opposite wall. “Things will get better now yer back here.” He beamed down at Harry and Harry felt his throat tighten up in response. It seemed impossible that anything could help him feel better, but Hagrid’s faith in him did.

He nodded silently, giving his throat a moment to relax. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

“Don’ mention it.” His smile slipped as if he realized just how much he’d affected Harry. Instead of saying anything else, he placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder with surprising gentleness before turning to the wall. 

Harry cleared his throat, the last of his emotion slipping away. “So…my room?”

“We’re here.” Hagrid nodded at the wall, as if it should have been obvious. 

“Ok…” Really, Harry knew he should have expected something like this. A hidden door? That was par for the course at Hogwarts. No wonder he’d never known where the staff slept. “How exactly do I get in?”

Hagrid chuckled at the look of confusion on Harry’s face. “Simple, just walk straight at the wall while whispering yer password. It’s set ter “Quidditch” right now. Thought yeh might like that.” From the smile on Hagrid’s face it was obvious the password had been his idea. 

“Once yeh get comfortable you can change it. Just tell the wall what you’d like ter change it to when you walk out. Make sure to be nice though, more than one professor has ended up locked out of their room. And trying to get the wall ter let yeh back through is a nightmare.”

Looking at the blank stretch of wall and gulping, Harry was reminded of his first time walking through the barrier at platform 9 ¾. The platform, however, wouldn’t lock him out if it was feeling temperamental. Well…there had been that time at the start of second year, but that was different. Dobby had locked the platform. 

“Thanks, Hagrid.” Harry didn’t want to be rude, but really didn’t want to deal with any visitors while he put his quarters in order. He just wanted a chance to get a feel for where he’d be living before having to entertain any guests.

Thankfully, Hagrid seemed to understand. “Not ter worry, Harry. I’ll leave you ter it now.” He stared down at Harry, as if wanted to say something, but he shook his head instead. “You’ll come round fer tea when yer settled?”

“Of course.” _That_ he would definitely do, even if he didn’t know exactly when.

After another hug and a round of goodbyes, Hagrid left Harry standing in the Dark Arts corridor, staring at a blank stretch of wall. As he prepared to walk through it, Molly’s words echoed through his mind. _“Now, all you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous…”_

He wasn’t going to run, but he was going to push straight on through as quickly as possible.

A second later, Harry found himself standing in the middle of a small sitting room. It was modestly furnished, with two squashy-looking armchairs, a small table, and a fireplace. There were two doors leading off either side of it. The one on the right, he discovered, was a personal bathroom complete with toilet, sink, and a small tub. The one to the left was the bedroom.

Slightly larger than the sitting room, the bedroom held a cupboard for his clothes, a desk, and a four-poster bed, slightly larger than the ones in the dormitories. The bed was outfitted with a plush-looking brown comforter and was hung with matching curtains. There was a stained glass window made up of all the house colors above the desk that shone colorful light across the floor. His luggage sat in the middle of the room; such a tiny heap to be his whole life. 

His quarters were small, and slightly shabby, but they already felt more like home than his muggle flat ever had. 

Hands on his hips, Harry stared at his belongings, wondering where to begin.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next few days passed in a haze of unpacking, arranging, re-arranging, and planning. Though meals were served for the staff in the Great Hall, Harry had convinced a friend of Dobby’s, now stooped with age, to bring his meals to his room. The only time he left his room was to walk straight across the hall into the Defense Against the Dark Arts room…his new classroom.

He pored over the old notes Hermione had lent him and gone through the introductory packet McGonagall had sent, in hopes of being ready. No one bothered him, and for that he was thankful. He didn’t know if it was because they’d been told to give him his space for now, or because they were all preparing for the start of term, but he didn’t care. Soon enough, the castle would be crawling with students and professors, and right now, he needed the time alone.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The night before the start of term, Harry dreamt of Jude.

He dreamt of their coffee dates.

Of the feel of Jude’s fingertips brushing against his.

Of his death.

Of his funeral.

Harry awoke screaming, sweating, and completely alone.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

He was cutting it close, he knew, but Harry didn’t want to leave the safety of his room and venture into the sea of students. He’d managed to get back to sleep after his nightmare, but it had taken quite a while. He’d woken up feeling terrible, physically and emotionally, because of it. In London, he’d been able to call Ron and Hermione about what had happened. But there was no cell reception at Hogwarts and he wasn’t sure he wanted to attempt a floo call to them in the middle of the night. There were some things he just _did not_ want to see.

So he’d fought through the nausea and his fears, and forced himself to straighten his bedclothes before lying back down. He’d spent the next hour staring out the tiny stained glass window, trying to will the last remnants of anxiety away. 

It hadn’t worked, but the next thing he’d known, it was morning.

Now here he was, moments before the welcome feast was supposed to start, still staring at himself in the mirror of his cupboard door. He looked a little better than he had in London - not so pale, not so thin - but he still didn’t look _good_. Truth be told, he was reminded of Lupin the day after a full moon – shabby, worn and sickly. 

Finally admitting that there was nothing he could do to help his appearance and acknowledging that McGonagall probably wouldn’t be very happy if he were late to the feast, Harry left in a hurry. He ran down the three flights of steps from the Dark Arts corridor, and skidded into the Great Hall through a door by the teachers’ seats (a helpful tip Hermione had given him about where the professors were supposed to enter and exit from), just as the first years were making their entrance. 

His chest heaving, he took the open seat next to Hagrid and tried to avoid McGonagall’s hawkish gaze. She wasn’t impressed and he couldn’t blame her. This was _not_ a good start to his time at Hogwarts. He smiled apologetically and hoped that she wouldn’t yell at him for it later. He could understand her position; despite a mutual respect, she was now his boss, and it was her job to make sure the school was running smoothly.

She didn’t smile back, but her face did soften…a bit. 

It was enough.

McGonagall looked away from him and stood up, her arms stretched out towards the students. “Welcome, students, new and returning! It is time for another year at Hogwarts.” Harry watched her, amazed that she was welcoming the school before the sorting. Dumbledore had always waited until after. But then again, McGonagall was not Dumbledore, and it had been thirteen years since he’d been at a Hogwarts welcoming feast. “It is time for the Sorting Ceremony to commence.” 

The doors to the Great Hall opened and through it came, of all people, Neville Longbottom. A stool, scroll, and Sorting Hat in his hands, he made his way to the front of the room as a gaggle of soon-to-be first years followed nervously behind. Before turning to the group of children, Neville smiled at Harry, and Harry nodded back. If anyone had told Harry that Neville would someday be in charge of the Hogwarts sorting, he wouldn’t have believed them. But after what he’d seen of Neville in the fight against Voldemort, he knew that no one deserved the position more. When Neville called out the first name on the list, Harry sat back and watched in admiration.

Neville made surprisingly quick work of the sorting, and Harry wondered if his own had passed as quickly. At the time, it had seemed like the ceremony took ages as he waited for his turn. But now that he was on the other end, it barely took twenty minutes. And as Neville took the stool and hat away, a wonderful thought occurred to Harry – Neville hadn’t called out “Fern Dursley.” Harry hadn’t really expected Dudley to send his precious _Fernie_ to Hogwarts, but stranger things had happened. It was a huge relief knowing that he wouldn’t have to put up with his niece. He had a feeling that things were going to be hard enough without having to deal with her on top of everything else. 

McGonagall stood up again. “Now that the sorting is over, it is time for a few announcements.” She stared out at the students and Harry wondered if they could feel the power of her gaze from their seats. “This is a new year, but the rules are still the same.” Her tone brooked no argument. “No students are allowed in the Forbidden Forest without permission or escort. Anyone found to be breaking this rule will receive detention.” Harry snorted, remembering his own adventures in the Forbidden Forest. “Also, there will be _no_ wandering the corridors after hours…” Harry followed her line of sight as she eyed two Gryffindors, whom he guessed were the house mischief makers. He felt a pang of sadness in his stomach as he thought of Fred and George. 

“Next, we have two new professors joining us this year, both of whom are returning students themselves.” Harry gulped, suddenly full of nerves. He was about to be introduced and he had no idea what to do. Why hadn’t he gone to see McGonagall beforehand? The question was moot; he knew exactly why he hadn’t gone. “First is Harry Potter, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.” A wave of excited whispers spread through the hall; some of the students even stood up to get a better look. Harry felt like an animal in a zoo. It had been so long since he’d seen this type of reaction that he blushed from his toes to the tips of his hair as he waved nervously. 

“And second, Draco Malfoy, who will be teaching Potions.” At the mention of Malfoy, Harry’s ears began to buzz. How had _Malfoy_ gotten a job at Hogwarts? The last he’d heard, the Malfoys had shut themselves away in their Manor. Harry hadn’t heard anything about Malfoy in so long that he’d all but forgotten he existed. Now here he was, alive and teaching. It seemed…impossible. 

Almost as impossible as Harry, himself, teaching at Hogwarts.

But at least he wasn’t a former Death Eater.

As he looked down the line of professors at the sleek, blond head of Draco Malfoy, Harry wondered just how, or why, he had managed to return to the school. What had he done to deserve this second chance? Before he was able to look away, Malfoy turned toward him, a subtle sneer already crossing his pale, pointed his face. The look cut straight to Harry’s gut, taking him back to first year. After a moment, though, the sneer wavered slightly, and Harry wondered if there wasn’t more to Malfoy’s attitude. 

It had been over a decade since they’d last seen each other, and apparently Malfoy hadn’t changed. Not towards him, anyway. Fighting back his own dirty look, Harry turned away, trying to focus on anything but Malfoy. 

He’d come to Hogwarts to try and get his life back together.

Now he was going to have to contend with Malfoy as well.

Looking down at the food appearing before him, Harry wondered if it was too late to change his mind and go home.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry managed to make it back to his room without having to face Malfoy. If he had his way, he wouldn’t cross the slimy git’s path once from now until the end of the year (If either of them made it that long, that is.). All he had to do was stick to his corridor and make sure to avoid Malfoy in the Great Hall. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

He went to sleep feeling sick to his stomach. In a few hours he would step in front of a class for the first time and teach. He’d come back to Hogwarts to give guest lectures a few times over the years, but that was different, that was easy. All he’d had to do was talk about his own experiences with the Dark Arts. This time he had to actually _teach_ children about defending themselves. 

He fell asleep, filled with dread, wishing that Jude were there to wish him luck.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Harry realized that avoiding Malfoy wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped...

It was his first day as a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and he wanted to make a good impression. He showered, shaved and combed his hair so much he thought it might fall out. The act, however, was pointless; there was just no taming it. Pulling on a set of freshly laundered robes, Harry considered his reflection in the mirror. The difference was slight, but he looked better already – less pale, not quite as thin. His eyes, however, still bore the unmistakable emptiness of loss. But there was something else there for a change, a hint of worry, of fear…of anticipation. He didn’t expect for it to last long, but it made for a nice change. 

And, truth be told, he was excited.

If only a little bit.

Gathering up his books and things, Harry walked through the wall, hoping he didn’t offend it in any way. He would hate to end up locked out after his first day as professor.

He was so focused on not offending his wall as he stepped out of his room that he didn’t notice the other person until he’d run smack into them. They both grunted and cursed as books, scrolls, and quills clattered to the floor around them. Harry crouched down and reached for the books. “Sorry about that, I-”

Malfoy’s snide voice interrupted him. “Get your hands off my things, Potter.” Harry recoiled as Malfoy batted his hands away. 

Head snapping up, Harry found himself staring directly into the cold, grey eyes of Malfoy. His first thought wasn’t, “What is he doing in _my_ corridor?” It wasn’t even, “So much for avoiding him.” It was, strangely enough, “Have his eyes always been so stormy?” That thought, however, was quickly erased by the small sneer that was creeping over Malfoy’s thin mouth. 

“I said, hands _off_.” Malfoy haphazardly scooped half of the fallen objects to himself and stood up.

Harry, mind reeling from thoughts of Malfoy’s eyes, felt a burst of anger erupt in his stomach. It might have led to some cursing - verbally and/or magically - had students not chosen that moment to walk down the hall. Quickly grabbing the rest of the things that had been dropped, Harry returned Malfoy’s sneer with one of his own before pushing his way past.

As he did, their shoulders bumped, the bones practically scraping against one another through the fabric of their robes. Harry hissed in pain and he saw the expression on Malfoy’s pointed face turn into a smirk. It took everything Harry had not to shove his fellow _professor_ into the stone wall. 

And based off the triumphant look on Malfoy’s face, Harry could tell that Malfoy knew _exactly_ how he felt. 

His grey eyes were alight with mischief and Harry felt his skin crawl. They’d played this game before, _so_ many times before. But they’d been children then. Now they were adults, professors; they should have been beyond this. And after what had happened during sixth year and in the war, Harry had thought they’d come to some sort of mutual understanding of one another. 

The look of challenge in Malfoy’s eyes, however, told a very different story.

They hadn’t grown past their mutual animosity.

And they probably never would.

Malfoy’s expression was a mixture of loathing, challenge, pride, and something else that Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost like Malfoy wasn’t totally sure of his actions. Oh, it was slight, completely unnoticeable to anyone who didn’t know Malfoy, but Harry could see it in him. There was a tiny part of Malfoy that was at odds with the sneering and sarcasm. But that didn’t matter to Harry, not right now.

Harry’s blood boiled and turned, warming his entire body with the need to meet his rival’s challenge. The feeling was as intoxicating as it was infuriating. It was horrible, but also…exciting. He felt… He felt… He just _felt_. For the first time in almost a year, Harry _felt_ something. It was nothing short of miraculous. Wretchedly, disgustingly miraculous.

And worst of all…

Harry _wanted_ more of it.

 _Needed_ more of it.

It made him feel more alive than he had in months. He could barely believe that he’d forgotten what it was like to really _feel_ , not just exist. His skin itched and crawled as it craved _more_. 

But with students milling about and whispering nervously to one another, Harry knew that this was neither the time nor the place to push further. He would get Malfoy back, just not right now. Patience had never been Harry’s strong suit, but he knew that he wouldn’t have to wait long. 

Clenching his teeth, Harry walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. As he did, he wondered…had he really heard Malfoy chuckling triumphantly?

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry made his way into his classroom, his steps more assured than they had been before he’d run into Malfoy. His anxiety was gone and in its place was a fire that he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d squared off with Malfoy. There was just something about the blond that had always managed to get under Harry’s skin and light him up. He was a constant source of anger and irritation that made Harry work harder and be better.

It was with that energy that Harry commenced his first lesson, a double class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. It wasn’t easy, not by a long shot, but he approached the class with a confidence that Hermione’s old notes and McGonagall’s packet hadn’t given him. He was driven by something else now, something more primal. And as he stood in front of the first years, who were just as nervous as he was, Harry realized that he _had_ this, he could do it.

Teaching a class wasn’t all that different from the lectures he’d given, in which he’d told the students about his own experiences. As the students looked up at him, Harry decided that he was his own best resource. He would teach the students about the Dark Arts from his own perspective and his own experiences. He would teach them as if he was back in fifth year, and this was simply another DA meeting. “Hello class, I’m Harry Potter. I’d like to tell you a little bit about myself…”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Before Harry knew it, the bell rang, signaling the end of class. In mid-sentence, he could barely believe it. His Malfoy-fueled adrenaline had worn off a while ago, but he still felt good about the lecture he’d just given, even if he had forgotten to assign any homework.

“That’s it for today,” Harry felt his nerves creep back in as he slipped back into teacher mood. “I’ll…” He stared at the class, feeling helpless as they ignored him in lieu of packing up their things and dashing out of the room. “See you tomorrow,” he finished to himself.

Plopping down in his chair, Harry leaned back and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. An hour ago he’d been so sure, so confident. Now he felt like the helpless first year he’d been once again. It was like someone had flipped a switch in his head. No, not _someone_. 

Malfoy.

Malfoy had changed his mood, had changed his confidence. As stars bloomed in front of his eyes, Harry berated himself for falling into Malfoy’s juvenile trap _again_. The familiarity of the shared animosity had fueled him, driven him to forget his insecurities and see himself as something more than a scared child. But at what cost?

For years, Harry had been trying to measure his reactions to others. It was important, as an Auror, to stay calm and not fall for a dark wizard’s tricks or goading. It was a defense mechanism and it had kept him safe for years. But two minutes in Malfoy’s presence had destroyed all of that.

Dropping his hands, Harry promised himself that it wouldn’t happen again. He’d come to Hogwarts to get on with his life, and that meant moving forward, not slipping back into old habits. The anger and adrenaline had made him feel alive, but it was a temporary fix. 

One that he couldn’t let himself rely on. 

“Potter?” Ripped from his thoughts, Harry practically fell out of his chair. As it was, it sprung out of its reclining position, knocking Harry’s knees against his desk. He clenched his teeth shut as his eyes began to water.

“Pr-Professor…” Swallowing his pain and sudden nerves, Harry blinked at the person standing before his desk. She looked older and grayer, but then again, so did he. “I mean…Headmistress.”  
Professor McGonagall didn’t laugh, or even smile, but there was an amused twinkle in her eye, nonetheless. “Minerva will do just fine.”

“Oh, ok… _Minerva_.” The name felt strange, forbidden, as it fell off his lips. He was pretty sure he’d _never_ feel comfortable calling McGonagall Minerva. It was just…wrong.

“I’ve come to see how things are going. I know you decided to take the post last-minute.” She eyed him over her spectacles as if examining him from the inside out.

“Fine,” Harry fidgeted with a stack of books on the corner of his desk. “Fine.”

She continued to look at him and it was clear that she did not believe him. He couldn’t blame her. 

Harry squirmed under her gaze, feeling guilty though he’d done nothing wrong. “I’ve allowed you the past few days to get settled, but I must know now, are you ready for this?” 

Harry stared back at her, considering the question. In his time at Hogwarts, she’d been his champion, spurring him on to the Ministry and the Auror program. But now there was a flicker of doubt in her eye that caused his stomach to drop. Unable to speak, Harry nodded.

“I thought as much. You’ve never struck me as the scholarly sort, but I believe that you will do well in this position.” McGonagall’s gaze softened. “I invited you here as a favor. Please keep that in mind, Harry.”

“I know…Minerva.” Harry forced himself to use her first name. He _knew_ she’d taken a chance on him and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“Good.” She nodded curtly and turned to leave. 

Before she made it very far, though, Harry found himself calling out to her. “Um…I do have one question…”

McGonagall turned and waited expectantly. 

Harry took a deep breath before asking, “What is Malfoy doing here?”

“ _Professor_ -” Harry fought back the eye roll at her emphasis. He would _never_ refer to Draco Malfoy as _Professor_. “-Malfoy is here for the same reason as you: to teach.” Without another word, she left the classroom. 

Harry didn’t believe her. Well, he _did_ , obviously Malfoy was teaching Potions. But there had to be more to it. Malfoy? A professor? It just didn’t seem right. He’d always expected Malfoy to take over his family’s business, whatever it was, once he got older. He’d never thought he’d see Malfoy take an everyday type of job. There had to be more to the story. 

Whatever that was, though, Harry would have to wait to find out.

A group of thirds years, Slytherins and Gryffindors this time, came into the classroom. Harry was surprised to see that, for the most part, the two houses kept separate from each other. He’d heard from Teddy that things had calmed down between the two rival houses, but it certainly didn’t seem that way. There were a couple of brave kids who met in the middle, but it seemed as if the prejudice still hadn’t abated. Staring out at his students, Harry realized that he wasn’t ok with that. 

When everyone had finally filed in and taken a seat, Harry said, “Everybody up!” They looked at one another, confused. “I said everyone stand up!” He motioned with his arms, as if that would help lift them from their seats. “I want you all to sit next to someone you don’t know, someone from the opposite house.” There were faint mumbles and groans, but everyone obeyed, begrudgingly picking new seats. 

Harry looked around the classroom, nodding. The students looked unsure, uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. Things were going to be different this year. It was his class and he intended to make the most of it. “Good. These will now be your seats for the rest of term. Get to know the people sitting next to you. Make friends.” There was another murmur of confusion, but Harry didn’t care. It would be difficult, but they would learn to get along in time.

Feeling more confident, Harry strode around to the front of his desk and perched on it. “I am Harry Potter. Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The rest of Harry’s day passed quickly in a flurry of nerves and spontaneous inspiration (for him _and_ his students). Before he knew it, the last bell of the day rang out. Just like when he been a student, that glorious bell screamed freedom. He was done with classes and there was no homework for him to grade. He had the night completely to himself.

Reaching for his things, Harry noticed a book on his desk that wasn’t his. The cover was worn and faded, light brown leather with dark stains. It bore an illustration of a simmering cauldron with the title _Most Potente Potions_ rising out of the steam. 

His good mood evaporating more quickly than a delicate potion, Harry sank down into his chair. This was obviously one of Malfoy’s books. He must have picked it up by mistake that morning. After grabbing a handful of things off the floor, Harry hadn’t bothered to make sure that they were actually all _his_. He’d been so worked up that it hadn’t mattered one way or the other to him. But now, with Malfoy’s book staring him in the face, he wished that he had taken two seconds to check. As it was, he was having flashbacks to second year of Lucius slipping Ginny a Horcrux in the guise of a diary.

The last thing that he wanted to do was confront Malfoy. Their earlier row had sent him spinning and he didn’t want to go through that again, no matter how good it had felt. He needed to focus on himself, his life, on who he was becoming - not face off with his old school rival. 

Sighing in exasperation, Harry picked up the book. He needed to return it, if only to see if Malfoy had anything of his - and to make sure he didn’t get sucked into another of Voldemort’s latent traps. Harry told himself that it would be a good exercise, a way to practice his calm. He told himself that if he could face Malfoy and walk away feeling like a civilized adult, he would consider it a good day.

Fate, it seemed however, was not on his side. 

Book in hand, Harry took a tentative step inside the Potions classroom. And then another. It felt odd to be back in there, in a room that had brought him so much misery. He tried to tell himself that it was just a room, nothing more, but he still felt awkward as he walked further inside.

The Potions classroom looked much the same as Harry remembered it, cold stone tables and high stools. But instead of jars filled with powdered this and slimy that, Harry noticed neat rows of shelves covered in a multitude of colorful bottles. They varied in size and color; there were tall cerulean blue bottles and squat yellow ones, there was even a round one that seemed to be changing from red to purple as he watched. The front of each bottle bore a parchment label with Malfoy’s slanting scrawl on it. Harry had to admit that the effect was quite beautiful. 

He lifted a hand to trace a slender green one when Malfoy called out. “I would request that you touch _nothing_ , Potter.” Harry drew back his hand as if he’d been stung. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Malfoy sitting at the desk. “I remember your atrocious potion-making skills all too well, despite what Slughorn may have thought.” Malfoy’s tone was bitter.

Malfoy was bent over a parchment scroll, his eagle-feather quill scratching noisily over the paper. As far as Harry could tell, he hadn’t even looked up. How had Malfoy known it was him? He was just about to ask him when Malfoy finally did look up at him. Once again, Harry was struck by the color of Malfoy’s eyes. They were still grey, but now it seemed like there were subtle hints of silver there as well. Malfoy stared back at him, and Harry quickly looked away.

For some reason, Malfoy’s gaze, when not accompanied by a sneer or snide remark, was unnerving. 

“Well, Potter?” Malfoy sounded tired, but there was still a note of antagonism to his voice. 

“Huh?” Harry’s mind was still stuck on Malfoy’s eyes.

“Why are you here?” He spoke slowly, clearly, as if speaking to a child.

That brought Harry’s attention back instantly. 

“Your book.” Harry held the book up and felt a smug satisfaction as Malfoy’s eyes widened in shock. “I picked it up this morning.” He tossed the book on the desk where it landed with a resounding thud.

Malfoy pointed to a small stack of things on the corner of his desk; a scroll of Hermione’s notes, a battered looking quill and a small book. Harry hadn’t even realized he’d been missing them. Scooping them up, Harry made to leave Malfoy’s office. The exchange had gone smoothly enough, and he wanted to escape before anything could happen.

“Now, Potter, why are you _really_ in my office?” Malfoy ran his long, thin fingers over the feathered quill in his hands. Harry watched, barely able to look away.

He’d been _so_ close to getting out of there without any problems.

Harry opened his mouth to protest Malfoy’s question, to remind him of the book, but before he could stop himself, something else came out. “Why are _you_ here, Malfoy?” Malfoy’s eye brows rose in response. “No one has heard from you in years. What are you doing back here?” Instantly, Harry felt his anger and indignation begin to rise. In that moment, Harry felt like Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, had no right darkening Hogwarts with his presence.

Deep down, he knew that he should be fighting against his rising ire, but at that moment, he just didn’t care. 

“I don’t feel the need to discuss my personal life with you, Potter.” He continued to finger the quill. “But what about you…” The expression on Malfoy’s face turned from tired to vindictively curious. “Why are _you_ here, hmmm?” He smirked and Harry prepared himself for the worst. “Last I heard you’d left the Ministry after your partner died of some _terrible_ curse. It was _all over_ the Prophet for weeks.”

Harry clenched his teeth and the reaction only seemed to fuel Malfoy on.

“Auror Markham, I believe?” Malfoy’s eyes twinkled. “That was _so_ long ago though, shouldn’t you be over it by now? Or…” He grinned mischievously, “Were you two an item? Wouldn’t that have been a fantastic scoop for the Prophet? Harry Potter…the Boy Who-”

No longer able to control his anger, Harry launched himself over the desk at Malfoy. 

His knees bit into the desktop, the pain of it radiating through his body. But Harry did not care about that. All that mattered was getting to Malfoy and inflicting as much pain on him as he had on Harry. He was so close, yet so far away when he felt someone grab him around the waist and pull him back.

“No!” Harry scrambled for purchase, pulling books, scrolls and various other items off the desk as he fell backwards. He landed on top of someone, a tangle of limbs and robes. Struggling to free himself, Harry all but cursed the person who’d just pulled him away from Malfoy.

Twisting and turning to get a look at whoever was beneath him, Harry blanched when he was met by the round, red face of Neville Longbottom. Neville was panting from the exertion and there was a red mark blossoming on his cheek. Harry guessed that he must have elbowed him. From the look on his face, it was clear that Neville wouldn’t be able to hold onto him much longer. 

“Harry, calm down.” Neville’s voice was breathy and pleading. “You have to stop; McGonagall will fire you if she finds out.”

Harry stilled instantly, but the anger still raged within him. He couldn’t lose this job, this chance.

Underneath him, Neville sighed in relief. “I’m going to let go now, alright?” His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t move his hands away.

Chest heaving, Harry nodded. He wanted nothing more than to get away from Malfoy as quickly as possible.

Slowly, as if Neville thought Harry was trying to trick him, Neville let go of his waist. Once he was free, Harry pushed himself off the ground, leaving the books and other detritus where they lay. Neville followed and Harry watched as he looked over at Malfoy, who was chuckling softly. “You should know better by now, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy beamed at Neville. “Of course I do, Longbottom. But it’s just so fun to rile Potter up.”

Harry made to launch himself at Malfoy again, but Neville grabbed hold of him and dragged him to the door before he could. He went willingly, and once they were out of the Potions classroom, he let loose with a stream of expletives that would have made Voldemort blush. Neville, being the good friend, agreed with everything he said, all the while leading them both back to Harry’s room.

“Password?” Neville’s voice was calm, but his face was strained.

“What?” Harry looked around, surprised to see that they were in the Dark Arts corridor already. “Oh, Quidditch.”

Together they walked through the wall, and into Harry’s chambers. Neville collapsed instantly into one of the squashy armchairs, but Harry was still too wired up to sit. Instead, he paced back and forth, anger still coursing through his veins. He felt the urge to smash something, anything, but one wild look around the room told him that there was nothing worth the effort. There was no glass, no tiny trinkets, nothing even remotely breakable. In fact, the sitting room was practically devoid of any personal items whatsoever. The few photos he’d brought were in the bedroom along with a couple of other knick-knacks. He’d left everything else in his flat in London.

Irritated to the point of exhaustion and feeling totally at a loss, Harry dropped to the floor. It wasn’t a conscious decision; one minute he was pacing, the next he was sitting. It was like his body had given out on him. When his bum crashed onto the floor, Harry let out a little umph of surprise. Not bothering to stand up or even move, he stared around the room, wondering how he’d allowed himself to get to this state. He felt completely drained, completely helpless, and it was all Malfoy’s fault. 

“Harry, you can’t keep letting Malfoy get to you.” Neville leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. The red mark on his cheek that Harry had noticed before was already starting to turn purple; by morning he would have a brilliant bruise to show for his efforts. 

From his place on the floor, Harry stared at Neville. He felt terrible about what he’d put his friend through, but he couldn’t shake the agitation that was still niggling at his nerve endings. “It’s not that easy, Neville.”

Neville nodded in understanding, and Harry knew that the act wasn’t hollow. Neville had had his own problems with Malfoy, so he really did get it. “I know that. But you’ve got to get past it. It took me a long time to realize it, but he just does it to push your buttons. He’s always been that way.”

Harry looked at him, wishing he could explain the effect Malfoy had on him. While Neville understood what it was like to be on the other end of Malfoy’s taunts, the two didn’t share the same animosity that he and Malfoy had. For Harry and Malfoy it was much more intense, more… _primal_ , like they were wired to react to one another in the extreme. There would never be a middle ground for them. “I just can’t…I can’t stop myself around him.”

“Just like he can’t stop himself around you.” Neville leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs as he did. “You two are like fire and ice, you always have been. But it’s time for you to grow up and get past it.”

Harry flopped back on the floor and flung an arm over his eyes. Fire and ice. If only it were that easy.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Rough hands slipped over Harry’s face, gentle in their exploration of nose and cheeks. The sensation sent tingles down Harry’s spine and he wished that Jude would replace his fingertips with his lips. The caresses were so easy, so natural. Harry wasn’t surprised to find he didn’t care about what others might think about him being held close by another man. But he was surprised to find just how much _he_ didn’t care about being touched by another man. It just felt…right.

In that moment, Harry couldn’t understand how he’d ever been scared of _this_.

Gone was his worry of the plans he’d made for his life: wife, kids, perfect house and perfect lawn. In that moment, all that mattered was the happiness that he felt swirling through his body, intoxicating him with joy. 

As Jude worked, Harry slid his hands around the other man’s waist and dropped his head back, allowing Jude to explore as much as he wanted. A tiny hum of pleasure slipped past Harry’s lips, but rather than be embarrassed, he smiled lazily. Nothing could ruin this moment for him.

“Hmmm,” Jude answered before ghosting his lips over Harry’s cheek in a barely-there kiss. “I take it you like that. I wish I’d known before…”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his face into the kiss, relishing the feel of Jude’s lips against his cheek. His hands tightened possessively around his partner’s waist, his fingers biting into soft cotton and taut muscles. 

Jude laughed softly before pulling away, depriving Harry of the contact that he was so desperate for. Harry groaned in protest and pulled Jude’s hips closer to his own; he’d let him slip away once before and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. But Jude wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Harry, you need to do something for me.”

“Anything.” And he meant it.

“You need to let go of the anger.” Jude turned Harry’s face towards his and pressed their foreheads together. The clear blue eyes that Harry found staring back him were pleading. 

“What?” Confused, Harry tried to pull away, but Jude wouldn’t let him. Instead, he held on tighter, practically locking their bodies together. 

“Please, Harry. It’s consuming you…” Jude’s voice trailed off and his expression became worried.

“I…I don’t understand.” Harry tightened his grip, not getting what Jude meant, but feeling a niggling worry slip in. “Please, tell me…”

Jude smiled at him sadly. “I can’t, Harry.”

“Why can’t you?” A quiet desperation was brewing inside of him. He could feel something coming, something terrible. 

But it wasn’t just a feeling of some unknowable danger lurking around the corner. Harry knew _exactly_ what the panicky feeling of dread lurking in the pit of his stomach meant. 

Trying to pull him even closer, Harry buried his face in Jude’s chestnut hair. He couldn’t lose him, not again, not this time. Everything finally seemed to be falling into place, finally making sense for a change. He couldn’t lose that again. 

Jude whispered into Harry’s ear, his lips brushing over the edge. “I’m sorry, Harry. Just know that I-” Before Jude could finish, before he could give Harry just a few more words, he dissipated in Harry’s arms.

Even though Harry knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what was coming, it still tore him apart from the inside out. They’d been so close to something - Harry didn’t even know what - but it had been stolen from them, from _him_ , again. And for that reason, it seemed to hurt worse this time. 

Drenched in blood and gore, Harry crashed into the ground. Knees aching, he slammed his fists into the grass repeatedly as he screamed. He yelled, cursing the sky, cursing the Ministry, cursing whatever unknown curse and dark wizard had taken Jude from him. 

Harry thrashed and wailed, fighting against some unseen grip on his shoulders. The harder it held on, the harder Harry fought. It wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice calling his name that Harry calmed down a bit.

“Harry! Wake up!” Neville’s voice was terrified and his grip was so tight that it bit painfully into Harry’s shoulders. “Wake up.” 

Confused, Harry struggled half-heartedly, trying to figure out what was real and what was left over from his nightmare. It took a few more moments of half-hearted struggling, but Neville’s face swam into view. “Neville?” Harry’s voice was raw, even to his own ears.

Neville’s round face looked terrified and Harry could feel his hands shaking where they held his shoulders. “That’s right, mate. You’re ok, everything will be -”

Without warning, Harry pushed himself away from Neville and the bed and dashed into the bathroom. His stomach heaved and his body purged itself of his anger and sorrow. He stayed hunched over the toilet long after he’d finished vomiting, wondering just how many times he’d found himself in this position, and how many more were yet to come. 

A sigh from behind him told him that Neville was in the doorway. Harry didn’t move, didn’t even turn his head, as he said, “I thought you’d gone back to your room.”

“Ron and Hermione told me about the nightmares, and after what happened with Malfoy, I figured that I should stick close.” Neville walked into the room and flushed the toilet with a flick of his wand.

A white hot shame spread quickly through Harry. Ron and Hermione had written to him about the dreams. Had they asked him to watch out for Harry? To babysit him? “I’m fine, you can go now.” Harry knew he sounded irritated, but he couldn’t help it, he _was_ irritated. He did _not_ need someone to watch over him as he slept.

“No, you’re not.” Where Harry’s voice was irritated, Neville’s was angry and stubborn. 

Finally turning away from the bowl, Harry looked up at his friend. His cheek did, indeed, sport a brilliant bruise. A bruise he’d put there. He wondered if Neville had acquired any more while he’d tried to wake Harry up. “No, I’m not.” Harry could hardly believe that the words had come out of his mouth. It was the first time that he he’d admitted to _anyone_ that he wasn’t ok. 

Oh, his friends knew that he wasn’t fine, how could they not? But to say it out loud, to admit it, was another thing altogether. 

Hating himself for the admission, Harry spat at Neville, “What do you propose I do about it?”

Neville sighed deeply, whether to calm his nerves or his own anger, Harry couldn’t tell. “I’ve got an idea, but you’re not going to like it.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Neville was right; Harry didn’t like his solution.

In fact, he _hated_ it.

“No _bloody_ way.” Harry shook his head forcefully. 

Neville sighed, something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately. “Come on, Harry.”

Harry stared at Neville. Just like the night before, Neville was sitting cross-legged in one of the squashy armchairs. “I said no.” 

“Hear me out…” Scrubbing his hands over his face, Neville looked like he was trying to wake himself up. Harry couldn’t blame him; they’d been up half the night discussing this.

“I heard you out.” Harry leaned against the small mantle, feeling as if he was asking it to hold him up. “And I’ve said _no_.”

Neville leaned back in the armchair, eyes shut, cheek purple. “Harry, Malfoy knows his stuff. He wouldn’t be Potions Master, otherwise.”

Harry snorted. “Right, because we were never subjected to an unqualified teacher here.” He screwed up his face in an imitation of thinking. “Trelawney, Lockhart, Umbridge…”

“This is different.” Neville’s voice was full of the same exhaustion that Harry felt deep in his bones.

“You’re right this is different.” Harry watched as Neville lifted his head to look over at him. It was clear from his friend’s expression that he thought Harry had changed his mind. “Not only are you asking me to go to Malfoy with a request for a favor, but you’re asking me to take a potion he’s brewed.” How Neville thought that this was a good idea, Harry didn’t know. “He’ll try to poison me. No...He _will_ poison me, and I’ll end up dead, or with an extra head, or… _something_.” Harry pushed his hands through his hair in irritation. 

He wished that Ron was there, so he could talk to him about this. Ron would _never_ suggest that he eat or drink anything that Malfoy had prepared. His best mate might have been lacking in some common sense, but he knew better than to suggest something like _that_.

“Trust me, Harry.” Neville walked towards him and placed a hand on his arm. The look in his eyes was solemn. “Malfoy takes his post _very_ seriously. He wouldn’t do something to jeopardize his place here.” 

Harry just looked at him. It would take a _lot_ more than just Neville’s word to convince him of Malfoy’s innocence. 

“Now, if you’ll -” He yawned widely. “- Excuse me, classes start in an hour.” Neville walked to the door. “Just think about it, alright?”

Once again, Harry didn’t answer. Even agreeing to think about asking Malfoy for help seemed impossible. And after what he’d gone through with the slimy git the day before, Harry could hardly believe that Neville would expect him to be ok with the idea. 

Neville didn’t wait for a response from Harry. Instead, he walked through the barrier, his yawns echoing behind him.

I wasn’t until Neville was out of sight that Harry realized just how tired he was. The fight with Malfoy, the nightmare, the all-night discussion with Neville…it all seemed to hit him at once, and Harry swayed on his feet.

There was no time for a nap, however, or even a shower, so he did the best he could: he used his wand to quickly clean his robes, teeth and face. Once he was more or less presentable, Harry headed down to the Great Hall for coffee.

Lots and _lots_ of coffee.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Sunlight was streaming through the windows of the Great Hall, warming it with golden heat that radiated through the room. The sky above him was filled to the brim with the kind of bright, bursting sun that could only exist at the end of summer. Harry could tell that it was going to be a beautiful day. It was a pity that he had to spend it feeling like walking death.

When Harry had stepped into the Great Hall, he’d expected it to be empty. Classes weren’t due to start for an hour, and if he remembered correctly, the students tended to wander in at the last minute. Today, however, he found one other person in the Hall already. 

Draco Malfoy.

Of course.

Harry’s irritation at seeing Malfoy that early in the morning gave way to confusion as he took in where Malfoy was seated. Instead of sitting in his high-backed chair at the head table, Malfoy was seated at the Slytherin table. He was slumped - and Harry was sure that this was the first time he’d seen Malfoy sitting in this fashion - over a mug. 

For some reason, Harry found the sight unnerving. Malfoy wasn’t allowed to sit like - well, like _him_. Malfoy was supposed to be prim and proper, straight spine, stiff shoulders, slicked-back hair. He wasn’t supposed to look so...normal. It just wasn’t right. A stuck-up, pompous Malfoy, Harry could deal with. A regular, human Malfoy, he could not.

Frozen in his spot, Harry tried to decide what to do. Take his own seat? Down the five cups of coffee he so desperately needed? Curse Malfoy until he corrected his posture? Turn tail and run?

In the end, Harry’s inability to deal with Malfoy won out.

Turning around and all but running out of the Great Hall, Harry quickly made his way to the Dark Arts classroom.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry walked into to his classroom, intent on summoning a kitchen elf for his much-needed mug of coffee. However, as he stepped inside, he immediately realized that he was not going to get the required dose of caffeine anytime soon…

Despite the fact that classes weren’t set to start for another thirty minutes, the room was full. 

However, instead of taking their seats, the Ravenclaws and Huffelpuffs were in an uproar. Insults were being thrown at rapid speed and wands were being drawn as Harry dove into the fray. He didn’t know what was going on, but it had to stop. “Oi!” He pulled a stick-thin Hufflepuff away from a round Ravenclaw. “What in the name of-”

“He started it!” shouted the Hufflepuff.

“Liar! It was _him_!” The Ravenclaw quickly retorted.

“I don’t care who started it...” The Hufflepuff tried to escape his grasp and Harry pulled him further away from his opponent. “…But it ends _now_.” The Ravenclaw stuck a sneaky tongue out at the Hufflepuff, thinking Harry wouldn’t notice. He did. “Detention for both of you.” They groaned. “And ten points from each of your houses.” Now the rest of the students groaned. 

As Harry sent the two offenders on their way to McGonagall, he mumbled to himself, _I thought it was only the Gryffindors and Slytherins who had problems._

The rest of Harry’s day went downhill from there. 

He had to send two more students to McGonagall; this time a Gryffindor and a Slytherin - a first year Hufflepuff vomited on his shoes, a contraband Fanged Frisbee took a bite out of his arm, and he found a dead cat, belonging to a horrified fifth year Gryffindor, under his desk. 

Sinking into bed that night, Harry wondered if this was what he had to look forward to from now on. If so, he finally understood why Filch, now since passed, had always been so angry. It was with a twinge of guilt that he fell asleep, just past eight o’clock. 

His mind worked overtime as he slept, slipping from dream to dream. The one it finally settled on had him awake and screaming just after three in the morning. 

His first instinct was to call Ron; his next was to try and force himself to go back to sleep.

Never once did Neville or Malfoy enter his mind.

The next few days passed easily enough. Harry began to settle into his role; lecturing, talking with students and assigning homework. He gave points and took points, always feeling a bit of pride when he passed the Gryffindor hourglass, currently in the lead for the house cup. It was hard not to favor the students of his old house, but he managed - for the most part, anyway. Suffice it to say, he now understood Snape’s horrible bias towards the Slytherins. 

So far, he’d been able to avoid Malfoy, only running into him in the Great Hall.

However, as soon as Harry felt like life at Hogwarts was taking on a comfortable routine, an owl arrived for him at breakfast. 

With deep black feathers and piercing yellow eyes, the owl landed gracefully next to Harry’s plate of bacon and eggs. She held out one leg, balancing perfectly on the other and gave Harry a haughty stare as she waited for him to take the note. Confused, he reached out and untied the scroll. It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t received any letters or packages since the start of term, it was the owl. He didn’t recognize her. 

Not waiting for a thank you, a knut, or a piece of bacon, the owl spread her beautiful wings and took off. As she flew away, Harry looked down at the scroll in his fingers. It was tiny and sealed with a scrawling letter M that had been pressed into silver wax. Feeling his stomach drop, Harry broke the seal, wondering what Malfoy could possibly want. Bracing himself for the worst, Harry read the note.

_Potter,_

_Longbottom has informed me that I was out of line with you the other day. He has also informed me that I owe you an apology._ Malfoy’s slanting scrawl seemed to sharpen and halt, like he’d hesitated over what to say. 

_My apologies, Potter._ That was all there was to the apology, but Harry was shocked that Neville had gotten even _that_ much out of him. He couldn’t help but wonder what type of relationship the two had formed. 

_Longbottom has also told me that you are suffering from trauma-based nightmares._ Harry crushed his fit around the note, and clenched his jaw. Neville had _no_ right telling Malfoy about his dreams. Just like Ron and Hermione hadn’t had any right to tell Neville. Was nothing sacred among his friends? _If you’re interested, I believe that I can assist in relieving you of the dreams. I will be in my classroom this evening if you’d like to discuss this further._

_Malfoy_

Discuss _this_ further? No, Harry would bloody well not like to discuss this further - with Malfoy, Neville or anyone for that matter. 

Flattening out the note, Harry grabbed a quill and scribbled a response below Malfoy’s. Short and to the point, it read: _Not interested, Malfoy._ Once he’d rolled the scroll back up he coaxed an owl, who’d just been delivering a letter to another professor, over to him with a bit of bacon. After tying it to the bird’s leg, he sent it on its way. 

Malfoy didn’t reply, but Harry hadn’t expected him to. And for all Harry cared, he could take the note to Neville and show him his reply. It was his mind, his subconscious, and he wasn’t about to have Malfoy tinkering with it.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The final bell of the day had rung hours ago, but Harry had stayed behind in order to speak with students who might have questions and to grade papers. At first, he’d tried grading the scrolls at the desk in his room, and then in one of the squashy armchairs in his sitting room, but no matter what he did, he’d ended up falling asleep, sometimes splattering the scrolls with blobs of ink. Staying at the desk in his classroom seemed to be the only way to stay awake while working.

He scratched a giant, read T onto the scroll of a first year Slytherin with a great sigh. Harry hadn’t been teaching long, but he was already fed up with this kid. Roffolus Meeks was _not_ stupid. In fact, he was quite bright. He was always engaged in lessons, asking and answering questions with ease. But his assignments were pitiful. Harry didn’t understand the difference between Roffolus’ in-class work and his homework. Shaking his head, Harry re-rolled the scroll and tossed it on top of his growing FINISHED pile. 

Picking up the next scroll and unrolling it, Harry settled himself in for a _another_ essay on the importance of being able to successfully disarm an opponent. He was about halfway through when a voice startled him. He jumped a little and the stretched-out scroll re-rolled itself. How had someone been able to sneak up on him? Was he _that_ tired? Was his Auror training slipping _that_ badly? He certainly hadn’t been that engrossed in the essay, which was currently rating a D, as far as Harry was concerned.

“Perfectly dreadful, aren’t they, Potter?” Malfoy stood in front of Harry, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was drawn and tired, but he still stood with perfect posture. It was such a difference from the morning Harry had seen him in the Great Hall. And oddly enough, Harry found that he sort of missed seeing that more-human side of Malfoy. 

Harry wanted to respond with a hearty, “Merlin _yes_ ,” but as he looked at Malfoy, he couldn’t make the words come out of his mouth. He was still too angry about their last encounter and upset about Neville’s suggestion. So instead, he said, “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Malfoy bristled and Harry felt a twinge of satisfaction. A second later, however, he’d regained his composure. “I’ve come to offer you my services… _again_.” Pulling his arms out from behind his back, Malfoy tossed the crumpled note from earlier onto Harry’s desk.

Harry stared at Malfoy. Did he not _get_ it? He did _not_ want Malfoy’s help. What would it take to convince him of that? “And I’m going to say no… _again_.” He dropped his gaze back to his desk, unrolling the scroll he’d been grading and pretending to read it. It really was painfully dull.

However, Malfoy wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I understand your hesitance.” There was something in Malfoy’s tone that Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if he understood why Harry wouldn’t want his help. “But the fact of the matter is that I am an accomplished potioneer, and I am able to help you with your dreams. Of that I’m certain.”

“Right.” Harry gave up all pretense of reading the scroll. “Do you honestly think I’m thick enough to drink anything you’ve brewed?” Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “My luck, you’ll end up slipping me a Draught of Living Death. Or worse.” Harry felt slightly guilty about his accusations, but he couldn’t help it. Drinking something that Malfoy had concocted seemed about as wise as taunting a hippogriff.

Malfoy took a deep breath before responding. “I understand your hesitance, Potter. I may hex you behind your back, but rest assured I would not jeopardize my Potions reputation.” 

A tiny bit of Harry, buried deep down, believed Malfoy. That tiny part of him, however, did not win out. “Just the same, I think I’ll pass.” 

Face hard, Malfoy nodded before turning and walking out of the room.

Harry watched him go, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Was this an olive branch on Malfoy’s part? Had Neville told him to come and speak to Harry? Could Malfoy really help with his nightmares? Every thought seemed more impossible than the next. But none of them enticed him more than the possibility of ridding himself of the nightmares. The thought of not dreading when the next would come…

With Malfoy’s words still ringing in his ear, Harry found it impossible to focus on the essays before him. He knew he’d told the students they would be handed back tomorrow, but he couldn’t even get through another sentence. They would just have to deal with the disappointment.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Another week came and went. Malfoy had not approached him once, but occasionally, Harry had found the other man staring at him. The staring was unnerving, to say the least. Whenever Harry had caught Malfoy watching him, the blond’s face had been curious, interested, like he was trying to figure something out. There were no sneers or smirks, nothing even remotely Malfoy-ish about the looks, and Harry found that he didn’t mind so much.

And that bothered Harry less than it should have.

Shouldn’t he have hated the fact that his sworn enemy was staring at him with interest in his gaze?

The weekend finally arrived and Harry decided to make good on his word to Hagrid. He popped round to Hagrid’s hut just after lunch and they spent an hour catching up over tea. For the most part, Harry kept his mouth shut, not wanting to admit what he’d been up to since Jude’s death. This hadn’t bothered Hagrid though, who went on and on about students, his own professorship and his new puppy (Fang had died many years ago; it had taken Hagrid that long to be ok with replacing him). The beast had sharp ridges down its spine and a row of teeth that looked they could take off Harry’s arm with one well-placed bite. Harry made sure to give it a wide berth.

Afterwards, Harry decided to pay Neville a visit in the greenhouses. They’d had a horrible row about Neville’s telling Malfoy about the dreams, but Harry couldn’t stay mad at him. In the end, he’d understood Neville’s reasons, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. 

“Hey there, Harry.” Neville, covered from head to toe in potting soil and what smelled like dragon dung, beamed at Harry around the plant he was working on.

Harry tried not to inhale the pungent aroma, but it was useless. He strongly suspected that he was going to need a shower once he got back to the castle. Perhaps even two. “Hi. What have you got there?”

“This?” Neville smacked a tentacle that was inching towards Harry. “This is an Amorfolous Creeper. It’s just hit puberty, so you’ll want to avoid the vines.” His voice was matter of fact, but Harry prayed that he was joking.

“You’re not serious.” Harry took a tentative step back as the offending plumage stared moving towards him again.

Neville walked out from behind the plant, shooing the vine once again. “Yeah, I am. It’s a fascinating plant, just a little…forward.”

Harry tried not to laugh at the thought of the giant green plant trying to feel up Neville. “Why do you have it around students if it’s such an…um… _problem_?”

“I don’t.” Neville brushed his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of earth behind. “This is my private greenhouse. I grow it here because it’s an important ingredient in many complicated potions. Amortentia, for example.”

“So…you keep it around so you can brew love potions?” Harry looked at Neville, confused. “Blimey, are you that hard up for a date?”

“Oh, ha ha. Hannah and I are doing quite well, thank you very much.” Neville gave him a deathly stare. “No, it’s extremely hard to come by. I harvest the nectar and give it to Malfoy for his Potions work. He’s doing wonderful things with-”

Harry was so shocked that he couldn’t stop himself from interrupting. “You’re helping _Malfoy_ with Potions ingredients?”

Neville looked at him with resignation, like he’d known this moment was coming. “Yes, I am.”

The expression on Neville’s face irritated him. “Are you two best mates now, or something?” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “This is _Malfoy_ we’re talking about.”

“I know who we’re talking about.” Neville looked like he wanted to mirror Harry’s stance, but he planted his hands on his hips, instead. “But Malfoy has changed, Harry. A lot.” 

He could barely believe what he was hearing. Neville, defending Draco Malfoy? Harry had to stop himself from checking if the sky had turned green, as well. “How has he changed? Why is he here? Did you get McGonagall to offer him a job, too?” Harry didn’t know where the last question had come from, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. Neville had arranged his position as the Dark Arts professor, why not Malfoy’s as well?

Neville considered Harry before speaking. “Yes, I spoke to Minerva on both of your behalves.” He held up a filthy gloved hand to stop Harry from interrupting again. “You were both in need of…a _change_.” Harry wondered what Neville _really_ wanted to say, because ‘a change’ was certainly not what he’d needed. “I was in a position to help, so I did.” Hand still in the air, Neville calmly watched Harry. “And no, we aren’t friends.”

Hand up or not, Harry couldn’t stop himself. “But you’re helping him, defending him.”

Neville dropped his hand. “We may not be friends, but we’ve come to form a mutual respect for one another.” Neville smiled, making him look like the chubby-faced boy he’d been at Hogwarts. “I can hardly believe it myself, Harry.”

Harry didn’t care what Neville could or _couldn’t_ believe. “What has he done? Why does he deserve your help or _respect_?” His voice was accusatory, and it disgusted him. Once again, Malfoy was getting under his skin. And he wasn’t even there.

“It’s not my place to say, Harry.” His amazed smile turned to one of sadness. 

“Oh, but it was your place to tell him about _me_?” Perhaps he wasn’t as over that as he’d thought. “What are you, his Secret Keeper or something?”

Neville took a moment to weigh what Harry had just said. “In a way, yes.”

Harry couldn’t seem to find a response to that. 

“I think that you should talk to him, ask him about it.” Neville picked up a trowel and a small, swaying plant. “It might change how you feel about him.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Another week passed in a flurry of classes, grading and dreams.

The dreams had lighted up a bit, a brief reprieve that Harry didn’t dare to enjoy too much. He knew that they’d come back all too soon. 

On his way back from his visit with Neville, Harry had decided to have another go at avoiding Malfoy. He didn’t care what his friend had said, he wasn’t going to try and make nice with the blond. Surprisingly, he’d managed to avoid Malfoy with relative ease. And for his part, Malfoy hadn’t approached him again. But Harry had caught Malfoy watching him, examining him, more than once. It was unnerving.

Not because he hated the thought of Malfoy staring at him.

But because he liked it.

Harry used to _hate_ when people stared at him for his scar. That wasn’t the reason why Malfoy started at him, though; he’d never stared at Harry because of it. Not even the first time they’d met. 

No, this was something different. There was interest in Malfoy’s expression, and Harry found himself basking in the scrutiny more than once. It felt wonderful to be gazed at, until he remembered _who_ was doing the gazing. When he did, it was like a bubble being burst, and that bubble was filled with self-doubt. 

Why did he enjoy being stared at by another man?

The thought of being caressed and kissed by another man in a dream was one thing.

To have those feelings carry over into his waking life was another altogether.

Every time thoughts of his sexuality had crept into his mind, Harry had tried to shake them out. But whenever he did, he’d found himself dwelling on his visit with Neville. Neville had told him to talk to Malfoy about why he was back at Hogwarts. But hadn’t he already tried to do that? And hadn’t Malfoy responded by picking a fight and insulting Jude? 

So no, he wouldn’t ask again. 

But even though he’d refused to talk to Malfoy about his reasons for coming back to Hogwarts, Neville had piqued Harry’s curiosity. 

Yes, he’d asked Malfoy before, but he’d only been mildly curious then. Now his curiosity was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Or, no…he could scratch, but he knew that if he did, the rash would spread, leaving him in a worse position than he was already in.

As the week finished, Harry wondered to himself - where did all of this leave him?

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

His mind twisting and turning, full of thoughts of Malfoy, Jude and Neville, Harry fell into bed, exhaustion quickly claiming him. His dreams came fast and hard; there was no kindness, no gentle touches from Jude before _it_ happened.

One moment there was nothing, the next there was Jude in bits and parts. Unlike before, Harry wasn’t able to scream or call out; his voice was gone. In its place was a wrenching gasp that burned his lungs and seared his throat. 

Harry spun around himself, and everywhere he looked was covered in red. To anyone else, it might have looked like someone had spilled some tomato sauce. But Harry knew better, knew that he was really standing in a pool of Jude’s blood and guts.

Still gasping, Harry dropped to his knees and began scooping the thick pool towards himself. The blood was warm and sticky and as Harry continued to run his fingers through it, he felt chunks slip over and through his fingers. The lumps were so small that Harry couldn’t make out what they were, but they were Jude…. Bones, teeth, muscle, organs, tendons…

_Jude._

Chest heaving painfully, Harry help his hands up in front of his face and watched in horror as the blood and gore began to slide down his arms. 

As the blood began to drip back to the ground, disappearing into the muck around him, Harry finally began to scream. 

“Hold…” Harry fought with all of his might, trying hard to shake off the force that was pushing him down. He could feel himself being sucked into the pool of blood, feel himself drowning in death, and it terrified him. So he fought. “…Him!”

“Noooo,” Harry heard himself roar as the faceless force pushed him back down again. 

“Stop figh-” Death, or whatever Harry assumed was death, tried to match his strength, but he could feel it weakening. “Stop moving, you bloody brute!” Who knew Death had a thing for slang?

Harry thrashed beneath his captor, his chest burning in protest. He’d fought his hardest, but he was losing energy quickly. “No, please…” 

Through his panting, Harry heard a familiar voice, a voice that clearly didn’t belong to Death. “Harry, please…it’s for your own good.”

And then he heard another, less pleasant one. “Listen to Longbottom and calm yourself, Potter.”

Neville and…Malfoy?

Giving in to his exhaustion, Harry opened his eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. He was panting and disoriented, but he could make out the shapes of his friend and…Malfoy. 

He wasn’t in a pool of blood and death wasn’t trying to drag him down. He was in his own bed and what he’d felt was Malfoy and Neville trying to hold him down. Harry could feel Neville’s hands clamped around his forearms, pinning them to the mattress, and Malfoy was sprawled across his chest, his body acting like a weight as his hands pressed into Harry shoulders.

Harry met Neville’s terrified eyes and he instantly let go of Harry’s arms. But Malfoy didn’t budge. And neither did Harry. For a moment, they just lay there, their breaths falling together in unison, Malfoy’s weight and anchor to reality. It was incredibly intimate, more intimate than anything he’d ever shared with Ginny, if he were being honest. Both of them calming down, catching their breath, they became one beating heart, one breath, one life…for a fraction of a moment.

When Malfoy moved, the horrors of his life flowed back in in full force, threating to swallow him whole.

His eyes flicked from Malfoy to Neville as he felt a familiar churning in stomach. Before he could stop himself, his stomach heaved. If it hadn’t been for the bucket Neville shoved in his lap, his sick would have ended up everywhere. 

As he vomited into the bucket, he felt Malfoy’s weight leave the bed only to be replaced by Neville’s. “That’s right, Harry, get it all up.” Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He was still so disoriented, exhausted and worn out that he couldn’t even find it in himself to feel ashamed. 

Once his stomach had finally settled down, Neville vanished the contents of the bucket before placing it on the floor again. Completely drained, Harry flopped back on his bed, not caring that Malfoy was seeing him at his very worst. He knew that come morning, he’d be mortified. But right now, he was too worn-out to care. Every inch of his body ached, he was drenched in sweat, and he felt as if his heart had been ripped in two. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but what would happen if he did?

“Is he finished, Longbottom?” Malfoy’s voice was devoid of the mocking that Harry would have expected to find there. In fact, when he turned his face to look at Harry, Malfoy was the picture of grim concentration. He was holding a small tea cup in one hand and a tiny vial filled with a sparkling black potion in the other. 

Harry turned back to Neville, who was looking at him curiously. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, so he just nodded.

Neville turned his face to Malfoy, putting his hand on Harry’s arm as he did. “Alright.”

Without another word, Malfoy poured the contents of the vial into the tea cup. Harry expected to see the mixture steam or froth, maybe even hiss, but it did nothing. In fact, it didn’t even make a sound as it met whatever was in the cup. For some reason, that lack of reaction terrified Harry. 

However, before he could protest, Malfoy slipped his hand under Harry’s neck and lifted his head slightly and the mixture was being poured into his parched mouth.

The next thing Harry knew, he was plunged into deep, blissful blackness.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Harry woke up feeling great. No, not great, _amazing_. He felt refreshed, reenergized, like nothing could darken his mood. He knew he’d had a nightmare, one of his worst, and he could vaguely remember Neville and...and… _Malfoy_ there when he woke up. But everything else was gone, like it had been swallowed up by some cold, inky blackness.

_Blackness._

Harry’s incredible mood wavered slightly as the memory of a potions vial shot through his mind, followed by one of Malfoy pouring something into his mouth. He couldn’t remember what it was, or how it had tasted, all he could remember was the void that had followed so quickly after.

Malfoy.

No, not just Malfoy.

Malfoy _and_ Neville.

So much for friendship.

Hastily cleaning himself up, Harry made a plan. He was going to find Malfoy and Neville and let them know what he thought of them and their…whatever was going on between them. It was ridiculously early on a Saturday morning, but Harry somehow knew _exactly_ where he’d find Malfoy. If Neville was there too, great. If not, Harry would track him down later. 

Harry pushed through his barrier, cursing Malfoy as he did. The next thing he knew, he was storming into the Great Hall, which was completely empty, save for Malfoy.

Once again, Malfoy was seated at the Slytherin table, slumped over, his hands clutching a mug desperately. 

Malfoy was slouched, his perfect posture gone and in its place something much more human. He seemed to be curving in on himself, like a flower closing up at night. The sight of him, almost pitiful and completely lonely, softened Harry’s anger. Something about this side of Malfoy touched Harry. 

“I didn’t expect you to be up for another couple of hours.” Malfoy sounded exhausted. 

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

“Either sit down or bugger off.” Malfoy picked up his wand and pointed it at the table next to him. A ceramic mug, filled to the brim and steaming, appeared. It was like Malfoy knew he wouldn’t leave. 

Harry’s mouth watered at the rich scent of coffee and his hand twitched. His traitorous body craved the caffeine like a goblin craved riches. He didn’t want it, he _needed_ it. 

He took one hesitant step, then another, before throwing his leg over the long Slytherin bench. As he sank down, he heard Malfoy mumble sarcastically, “Good man.”

For a few long minutes, which seemed to last for days, they sat in silence. Harry was painfully aware of every change in Malfoy’s body, a twitch of a leg, a stifled yawn. It was like he was completely tuned into the blond next to him. He wondered if Malfoy felt the same way. 

“Stop thinking so much, Potter.” A shift of one shoulder, an irritated flexing of fingers. “It’s too early for that.”

Shocked, Harry quickly tried to clear his thoughts, wondering if Malfoy was skilled at Legilimency. The more he tried to _not_ think about Malfoy, however, the more Harry noticed.

Impossibly long lashes that caressed Malfoy’s cheeks as he blinked.

Skin so pale that Harry could see the faint spider web pattern of blue veins on his neck.

Long, thin fingers that slid lovingly over the mug clutched in his hands.

“You’re giving me a headache, Potter.” Malfoy spoke into his mug, looking for all the world as if he wanted to drown in it. 

Cheeks flaming, Harry picked up his own mug and took a long drink. It was hot, bordering scalding and Harry fought back a chocking cough that made his eyes water.

Next to him, Malfoy snorted before sipping his own still-steaming mug of coffee. 

Wiping at the tears in his eyes, Harry set the offending mug back on the table. Perhaps he wasn’t in need of the caffeine after all. As Malfoy took another sip, Harry’s brain began to catalog the blond once again. A slight shift in Malfoy’s spine sent Harry’s mind reeling, he _couldn’t_ think about Malfoy. What if…what if he was listening to _everything_ that was going through Harry’s mind?

Feeling a faint flush creeping up his neck again, Harry thought of the first thing that came to him, the table he was sitting at. Not the table exactly, but the fact that it was the _Slytherin_ table. Harry was positive that he’d never once sat there. In fact, he’d never sat at any of the other house tables, other than Gryffindor’s. It seemed odd, to be sitting there now, after so many years of house prejudice. 

As that thought came to him, Harry remembered his first lesson with the Gryffindors and Slytherins. He’d told them to sit next to one another. To make friends. Before he could stop himself, he chuckled softly.

Malfoy’s body stiffened, but he didn’t look at Harry. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Harry reached out and wrapped his hands around the mug in front of him, mirroring Malfoy. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Malfoy still didn’t look at him.

Completely caught off guard by the question, Harry responded with a brilliant, “Huh?”

“ _Please_ ,” the word was filled with irritation, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Harry watched as Malfoy drummed his fingers along the side of his mug, from pinkie to pointer. When the last digit made contact with the ceramic, he looked at Harry for the first time since Harry had sat down. Malfoy, normally the picture of prim and proper, looked ghastly. His usually sleek hair was out of place and there were dark circles under his eyes. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Malfoy repeated his question, speaking slowly and clearly. 

Harry knew that Malfoy’s attitude should have irritated him, but he was too thrown by the blond’s appearance to care. Had Malfoy been awake all night? With him? It took all of his concentration to form a coherent response. “I feel fine. Great, actually.”

Malfoy eyed him, taking in every last detail of his appearance and Harry squirmed under the scrutiny. “Good.” 

Harry struggled to find something to say. Maybe he really was making this harder than it needed to be. “So… is that it?” He watched for some sort of reaction on Malfoy’s face, some clue as to how to proceed. “I take your potion before bed and I’m cured?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed slightly and for just a second, but Harry had seen it. “No, you _never_ take _that_ potion again.”

Huh? “What did you give me, Malfoy?” It was Harry’s turn to speak slowly, deliberately, even as his heart began to speed up. “Was it a Draught of Living Death?” 

Malfoy didn’t respond, just continued to stare into his mug.

Mouth dry, Harry forced out, “ _Was_ it?”

Malfoy’s face snapped towards Harry, the anger no longer veiled. “No Potter, it was not.” 

“Then what,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth, “is the name of the potion you gave me?” Not only was his temper rising, but so was his fear. He’d been given a mysterious potion without his consent. Malfoy could have poisoned him. This was _exactly_ what he’d been worried about.

“It doesn’t have a name.” Malfoy’s face changed became...haunted.

If _Malfoy_ was bothered, it had to be bad. “What kind of potion doesn’t have a name? _All_ potions have names!” Harry was barely able to keep his voice from rising as his anxiety did.

“This one.” Malfoy’s voice was an angry whisper. “And it doesn’t have a name because I _didn’t name it_.”

“You… You…” Oh no, no, no, no. Harry felt all of the blood rush out of his face.

“Yes, I gave you a potion that I created.” His voice was defiant. “I am a potioneer. It’s what I do.”

“You experiment on unwilling victims?” Harry wanted to throw things. He’d defeated Voldemort, been an Auror. How had he let this happen?

“I did not,” Malfoy’s face twisted viciously, instantly reminding Harry of the boy he’d once been, “experiment on you. That potion does _exactly_ what it is meant to do.” 

As Malfoy spoke, Harry’s attention was drawn to his hands. They were long and thin, perfect for chopping, crushing and measuring potion ingredients. But right now, they were clutching his mug so tightly that his knuckles looked white and sharp. There was more to the story that Malfoy was letting on. Harry’s Auror skills may have been slipping, but he knew when someone was keeping something important from him. “What aren’t you telling me, Malfoy?”

The sigh that swept through Malfoy’s hunched body spoke volumes. “The potion was designed to take away your dreams. Which it does. Totally and completely. However, the human body _needs_ to dream in order to properly rest. The contents of the dreams are unimportant, nothing more than the idle wanderings of a relaxed mind. But in order to stop the dreams, the potion must also deprive the body of REM sleep.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, trying to take in what he was saying, but not really understanding. He knew that if Hermione were there, she’d have done a much better job explaining this to him than Malfoy was.

“In other words…” From the look on the blonde’s face, it was clear that he knew Harry wasn’t quite following, and he wasn’t happy about it. “While it stops your mind from dreaming, it also stops your body from recharging.”

Harry shook his head, still not totally understanding. “But I feel great, completely awake. Wouldn’t I feel awful if I hadn’t slept properly?”

“And therein lies the problem.” Malfoy nodded, as if Harry were a student who’d finally caught on to his lessons. Harry almost expected him to award five points to Gryffindor. “You may feel brilliant now, but wait until later. You will come down eventually and you will _crash_. An unfortunate side effect, and one there is no solution for.”

Harry really didn’t see what the problem was. He hadn’t dreamt; that was all that mattered to him.  
“Well then, I’ll just take some more.”

“You will _never_ ,” Malfoy’s cold, gray eyes bored into Harry, “take that potion again.”

Feeling defiant, Harry straightened his spine and returned Malfoy’s glare. “I’ll get someone else to brew it for me.”

Malfoy didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “It is _my_ invention. And as such, I am the _only_ person who knows how to brew it.”

Well. That did create a problem. “I really don’t see what the issue is. You were practically begging to help me before.”

“I _never_ wanted to give you that potion, Potter.” There was a fierceness to Malfoy’s words that spoke of a much deeper issue. 

Harry wanted to ask Malfoy what potion he’d had in mind, but he didn’t get a chance. Vanishing his mug with a quick wave of his wand, Malfoy stood up. “If you would like further assistance, please feel free to stop by my office sometime.” 

The abrupt change and the stiff set of Malfoy’s shoulders confused Harry. Malfoy _still_ wasn’t telling him everything, but Harry didn’t push. Not right now anyway. “Um, ok.”

Malfoy nodded. Before turning to leave the hall, he looked down at Harry. “Please refrain from telling Longbottom that I wasn’t there when you woke up. He’d never forgive me.” Malfoy’s voice was tinged with sarcasm and sadness.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry sitting at the Slytherin table with his thoughts.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

If sleepy-eyed students hadn’t started making their way into the Great Hall in search of breakfast, Harry may have sat there all day. His thoughts were running, twisting, tumbling through his mind so fast that he didn’t know where to begin. But when a seventh year Slytherin looked at him curiously, Harry jumped up from the table. And after exchanging polite good-mornings, Harry left the hall.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry made his way down to the greenhouses in search of Neville. Neville had refused to tell him about Malfoy before, but maybe now…if Harry recounted his conversation with the blond, maybe he would. After all, Harry was involved now, wasn’t he? He’d taken the potion; albeit without his consent, but he’d taken it. As far as Harry was concerned, Neville owed him a few answers.

It was a crisp morning in late September; a cool breeze tickled his neck even as the sun warmed his cheeks. The summer heat was putting up a good fight, but fall was winning out. Harry enjoyed the heat as he walked down the Hogwarts lawn. The ground would be covered in snow soon enough. As he walked, his mind ran, trying desperately to digest what Malfoy had said to him. 

Though he wanted to demand answers from Neville, Harry knew that he had to be careful, or he’d end up with nothing. Neville could easily refuse to tell him anything and Harry couldn’t have that. He _needed_ to know what was going on with Malfoy. 

By the time he made it to the greenhouses, Harry had worked out a perfect approach. However, a twist of the door handle and Harry found his plans crumbling around him like sand. It was locked. All of the greenhouses were. 

“Neville left early this mornin’.” Harry turned to find Hagrid, covered in what looked like feathers and orange slime, standing next to him.

“He’s gone?” Harry mentally cringed at the desperation in his voice. “When will he be back, Hagrid?”

“Don’ know.” A large drop of feathery slime slid off Hagrid’s elbow and onto Harry’s shoe with a squelching plop. “Called ter St. Mungo’s ter deal with an emergency.” 

“What would they want Neville for?” Harry didn’t mean to sound rude, but Neville wasn’t a healer, so why would they call _him_?

Hagrid seemed a little surprised by the question. “Well, he is the best herbologist there is.” 

“Er…right.” Harry just barely managed to stop himself from asking about plant emergencies. He knew that Neville took his job very seriously; he wouldn’t have been called away if it hadn’t been important.

“Yer welcome ter help me if yeh want,” Hagrid look at him hopefully as another glob of goo dropped onto Harry’s trainer. 

Harry’s eyes widened in horror, “Er…” 

“It’s alright, didn’t expect yeh teh.” Hagrid smiled, but still sounded disappointed. “Yeh bein’ a professor an’ all.” His chest swelled and he beamed with pride. Harry couldn’t respond. “Well, I’ll leave yeh ter it.”

With that, Hagrid walked away, leaving a trail of sticky orange feathers behind him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Confused and alone, Harry turned away from the greenhouses and stared out across the Hogwarts grounds. He had plenty of work he could do in the castle; essays that needed to be graded, lessons that needed to be planned, but he couldn’t bear the thought of going back inside. He needed to think, to clear his mind. So he walked.

For the next few hours, Harry walked around the grounds, exploring the Quidditch pitch, tracing the edges of the forest. He’d thought about walking to Hogsmeade for the lunch at the Three Broomsticks, but changed his mind. Hogsmeade weekends would be staring soon enough; he could wait until then to venture into the village.

He made his way back into the castle for lunch, his mind no clearer than it had been before. There was just _so_ much that didn’t make sense. Malfoy was clearly not telling him everything, and while Harry _wanted_ to know what that was, did he _deserve_ to know? They weren’t friends. Granted, they weren’t exactly enemies anymore, either. But still…was it really any of his business what Malfoy was hiding?

And more to the point, why did _anything_ regarding Malfoy bother Harry so much?

The fact that he was bothered about Malfoy keeping secrets bothered Harry even more. By the time he sat down at the head table in the Great Hall, his mind was once again a twisting, snarling mess of emotion. 

After a tasteless and unsatisfying lunch, which Malfoy skipped, Harry began wandering the castle. The thought of going back to his room made him feel claustrophobic and the thought of grading papers made him want to weep. He still felt wide awake, thanks to Malfoy’s potion, but he was so restless. Was that a possible side effect? Or was his nervous energy, his desire to walk as far as he could, the byproduct of his discussion with Malfoy?

Harry didn’t know or care. 

All he knew was that he _needed_ to move.

He spent the rest of the day traveling through the school’s classrooms and corridors, rediscovering old passageways and finding new nooks and crannies he’d never heard about. Each step he took pulled at the knots in his mind, not unraveling them, but calming them, making them bearable. Oh, he was still desperate to know what Malfoy had kept from him, but the curiosity was tolerable now. 

After a while, the sky outside the windows began to turn dark and fill with rain clouds. Was fall finally breaking through the unseasonable heat? For the first time in hours, Harry stopped moving. Staring out a window, he watched as a bolt of lightning rent the sky before the heavens opened up and poured their contents onto the school. 

As the sounds of thunder filled the corridors, Harry made his way back towards his room. He was drained, physically and emotionally. Despite the constant barrage of thoughts since leaving Malfoy that morning, Harry was no closer to figuring anything out. All he knew was that he was confused.

And tired.

Very, _very_ tired.

With each step he took, Harry felt his energy drain out of him, almost like he was being deflated. The more he walked, the farther away his room seemed to be. And when he finally reached his stretch of wall, Harry had to brace himself against the stone to keep from swaying on his feet. 

“Quidditch,” Harry yawned as he pressed against his door, waiting for it to give into his weight.

But nothing happened. 

Figuring that the door hadn’t understood through his yawn, Harry tried again. “ _Quidditch_.” 

Once again, Harry pressed his hand against the stone, seeking entrance.

And once again, he was denied.

The truth of what was going on sinking in, Harry pounded on the stretch of brick wall that was his door. He begged, he pleaded, but it refused to allow him entrance. Hagrid had warned him not to offend the wall, but as far as he could remember, he hadn’t done anything to it. Why wasn’t it letting him in now?

Exhausted, Harry gave the door a swift kick that only served to hurt his foot. Cursing to himself, Harry looked from one end of the corridor to the other. It was completely empty, not even a spider seemed to be interested in keeping him company. Standing in the corridor alone, Harry tried to think of what to do and ended up coming to one conclusion…

He had absolutely no clue whatsoever how to get into his room.

Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore his exhaustion, Harry wondered once again how this had happened. He’d been so careful. It was embarrassing – mortifying, really - to not be able to open his own door. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. 

Slowly making his way back to the entrance, Harry yanked the door handle, prepared to go in search of Neville or Hagrid. However, when he opened the door, a brilliant bolt of lightning lit up the entire sky and struck down in the forest with a ground-shaking crash. There was no way he could go out in that. Even if they sky hadn’t been filled with lighting, it was now pouring so hard that Harry was pretty sure he would drown if he took so much as a step outside.

That left one option.

Heading towards the dungeons, Harry felt his heart begin to pound painfully. He hated the thought of going to Malfoy, but McGonagall was _not_ an option. She’d already questioned him about his ability to teach. What would she think if she knew he’d managed to lock himself out of his room? And he didn’t really know any of the other professors as he hadn’t spent any time with them. That left him with Malfoy.

Once again, Harry cursed himself for letting this happen in the first place. He thought about kicking another wall, but his toe was still throbbing as it was. Harry did not fancy a trip to the hospital wing on top of everything else.

Before Harry knew he had decided on a course of action, he found himself slouching down the deserted Potions corridor. It was cold and dark and there was a faint, greenish pattern rippling on the stone walls that reminded Harry he was under the lake. Despite the fact that Harry was used to ghosts, dark wizards and evil dark lords…he found it creepy.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispered into the darkness, wincing as his voice echoed down the hallway. Since when did the Potions corridor echo? He couldn’t remember it _ever_ echoing before. Feeling like a prat, Harry cleared his throat and forced himself to call out again, louder this time. “Malfoy?”

Harry didn’t know what he was expecting. After all, it was dinner time. Malfoy was probably eating. And it wasn’t like the blond could hear through stone walls. Preparing himself for a night spent in the teachers’ lounge, Harry turned to leave. 

When he heard a voice behind him, he practically jumped out of his skin. “Yes?”

Spinning around, Harry clutched his chest as his heart raced. If the look of amusement on Malfoy’s face was anything to go by, Harry could just imagine just how stupid he looked that that moment. “Er…”

How he looked, however, was nothing compared to how Malfoy looked…

Clad in nothing more than grey cotton pajama pants, Malfoy was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a pair of wire spectacles on his nose. The wall sconce hanging just above his head sprang to life - the work of a wordless spell, Harry thought. The sudden light caught on Malfoy’s white-blond hair and threw his face into stark relief, making him look as if he were hidden in shadows. The flaming torch gave off just enough glow to show the silvery scars that marred Malfoy’s chest. 

Harry looked away quickly as he remembered _how_ Malfoy had gotten those in the first place.

“Did you want something, Potter?” The amusement that had been on Malfoy’s face didn’t reach his voice, which sounded exhausted. Was Malfoy getting ready for bed already?

“I…um…” Harry tried to think of something to say, but thoughts of scars and soft cotton filled his mind. 

Malfoy looked like he wanted to mock him, to tease him about not knowing what to say, but he kept his mouth shut and waited. It was strange, but also comforting.

“I’mlockedout.” The words all came out in a rush. Malfoy stared at him, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Harry took a deep breath before repeating himself. “I’m locked out. I must have insulted it when I was walking out earlier.” Harry vaguely remembered cursing Malfoy as he’d left his room earlier. Was _that_ the reason he was now locked out?

Malfoy snorted, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out and took hold of Harry’s hand. Not thinking, Harry tried to pull his hand back. Malfoy leveled his gaze at him and said, “Relax, Potter. There are two ways to get through the barrier. One is with the password. The other is by touching someone who knows the password, sort of like side-along apparition. And since I have no intention of telling you the password to my chambers…” He held up their linked hands in explanation. 

The feel of Malfoy hand gripping his sent a tingle through Harry’s arm. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation, but it still made Harry vaguely uncomfortable. It reminded him of Hermione’s advice, of his recent ponderings about his sexuality. He thought that holding hands with a man should have felt weird, but it didn’t.

“Now that we’ve got that settled…” Malfoy turned back towards the wall and whispered something that Harry couldn’t make out. The door gave way at Malfoy’s command and they walked through together.

Once they were inside, Malfoy dropped Harry’s hand instantly and disappeared into his bedroom. The sudden loss left Harry wondering if Malfoy had been holding him at all. It was strange to think that, only seconds ago, he’d been uncomfortable with Malfoy gripping his hand, and that now that he wasn’t…

Harry gave his hand a little shake, trying to get rid of the feeling of Malfoy’s fingers wrapped around his. He was _not_ going to think about what it might have been like to hold onto that slender hand just a moment longer. Harry knew that _that_ was a very dangerous path to look down, especially at the moment. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets in an effort to avoid further temptation, Harry spun around himself slowly. Malfoy’s chambers were laid out exactly like Harry’s; main sitting room, bathroom to the right, and bedroom to the left. But even though they were clearly identical, they were so… _different_.

Where Harry’s rooms felt shabby, Malfoy’s were luxurious. 

Where Harry’s rooms felt like a paid night at the Leaky Cauldron, Malfoy’s were homey.

Harry thought that it was the work of a few knick-knacks, or choice decorations, but it was so much more than that. It felt like Malfoy _belonged_ there, like his life had infused the roaring fire and plush armchairs. And even though Malfoy wasn’t in the sitting room with him, Harry could _feel_ his presence there.

Harry had always thought of Malfoy as settling for nothing but the most expensive, most luxuriant possessions that his name and fortune would allow. He’d never thought that he would find Malfoy’s energy so firmly embedded in three small rooms. 

He wanted to reach out, touch everything, and try to find even more of Malfoy in the small sitting room. But just as he did, Malfoy’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Please do _not_ touch anything on the mantle, Potter.” Harry dropped his hand and turned his face towards Malfoy. Instead of being bare-chested, he now wore a black t-shirt with the gray pants. Harry found the difference disappointing. “Why must you always _touch_ things?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Malfoy held up a hand and cut him off. “Don’t answer that.” Malfoy pulled the wire-framed glasses from his face and gripped the bridge of his nose for a second. He looked as exhausted as Harry felt.

“Since when do you wear glasses?” Harry hadn’t even known he was wondering about it until he asked. 

“Since I’ve gotten older.” He slid them back on, and Harry took a second to appreciate the look they gave him – older, wiser. “Now, why are you here again…?” He smirked, but it was a pale echo of his usual expression. “You’ve managed to lock yourself out of your room and you’ve coming running to _me_ for help.”

Well…that just about summed it up. “Er…”

Malfoy snorted. “Thought so.” He crossed his arms over his chest, like he held all of the good chocolate frog cards. Which, Harry thought, he did. “Why not Longbottom? Or, for that matter, anyone else in the castle?” There was genuine curiosity in Malfoy’s voice and Harry found that he wanted to give a real answer.

“It’s pouring out, so I can’t go to Hagrid or Neville,” Harry admitted. Malfoy’s expression seemed to crumple, just a bit. “And I can’t go to McGonagall.” To tell him the truth or not? “She’s already convinced I can’t handle this job.” The words came out in a rush and Harry felt his face flush in embarrassment. He hadn’t even told Neville about that.

Shockingly, Malfoy didn’t laugh or smirk. Instead, he stared at Harry, his grey eyes serious. “Well then, how are you feeling?”

Thoroughly confused, Harry cocked his head to one side, and said, rather brilliantly, “…Huh?”

“The potion.” He sighed - or was it a yawn? - heavily. “You should be feeling dreadful about now.”

“Oh.” Oh. He’d forgotten about how awful he’d felt. How had he forgotten? Now that he’d remembered though, Harry felt tired to the bone. “Yeah, like you said…”

Malfoy nodded. “I’ll draw you up a cot.”

“What?” Harry rumpled his hair, feeling completely confused. “I thought you could help me with my door.”

“Yes, but you’ve clearly offended it.” Harry expected to see an amused twinkle in Malfoy’s eyes; instead he saw his own exhaustion mirrored there. It was only then that Harry realized Malfoy probably _had_ been up the night before watching him. “Best to let it calm down tonight and we’ll see what we can do come morning.”

Harry wanted to ask Malfoy if he was serious, but he clearly was. 

Yawning, and this time it was definitely a yawn, Malfoy pulled his wand from his pants pocket. With a complicated wave he produced a small cot covered with a plush-looking black comforter. All in all, it looked rather inviting, and Harry was not as uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in Malfoy’s sitting room as he should have been.

Stifling his own yawn, Harry pulled off his robes, revealing a muggle t-shirt and jeans underneath. He’d rather have had his pajamas, but he wasn’t about to tell Malfoy that. This would just have to do for tonight. 

“Merlin, Potter. What are you wearing?” Malfoy was staring at his t-shirt, aghast. 

Harry looked down as he pulled at the hem self-consciously. It was white and well-worn, a few tiny holes here and there. It bore a picture of a man, arms outstretched, looking seductively forward. It said “An American Poet” above the picture and “1943 – 1971” below. “It’s Jim Morrison, of The Doors.” Harry swallowed the painful lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “Ju- Auror Markham gave it to me for Christmas last year. He was a big fan of muggle music. It was a joke.”

Malfoy pressed his mouth together and nodded. 

“He always wore muggle band t-shirts.” Harry didn’t know why he felt the need to explain, but he did. “His parents were musicians. He grew up traveling with them.” He suddenly wished that he’d left his robes on.

“Well then…” The words were barely above a whisper, and Harry suspected that Malfoy had said them to break the silence. He flicked his wand and a pair of folded pants appeared on the cot. 

Harry didn’t say thank you and Malfoy didn’t seem offended at that. He knew that it was a testament to how drained they both were that this seemed completely logical.

Without saying anything, Malfoy turned and walked towards the bedroom. Before he could disappear into it, though, a terrible thought occurred to Harry. “The dreams.” Malfoy stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Are they gone now?”

“No.” There was so much weight in that one word that Harry felt as if he might sink into the ground. He knew that the brief respite had been just that, a _brief_ respite. But to hear it confirmed, out loud, made it all the worse.

Harry swallowed deeply, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “What do I do? You said you wouldn’t-”

“And I won’t. Never again.” Malfoy finally turned to look at him, his eyes were haunted.

“Why? What could _possibly_ be so awful about that potion?” As he waited for Malfoy to respond, Harry faintly recalled Neville urging him to ask Malfoy about why he was back at Hogwarts. He hadn’t exactly asked that, but this felt equally important.

For a minute that stretched into eternity, Malfoy stared at him. It seemed as if he were struggling with something, trying to decide what to do. He looked as if he were deciding if it was worth it to confess his deepest and darkest of sins. Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he waited. 

When Malfoy finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s extremely addictive.” He didn’t blink, barely even breathed. 

Harry’s first thought was that Malfoy had gotten him addicted to a dangerous, unknown potion. His second thought was, “How do you know that?”

“Because I was addicted to it.” Malfoy had made up his mind; made his confession. Now he stood, staring at Harry, his expression unreadable. “I needed a test subject, so _I_ tested it.” 

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to know more, to beg Malfoy to tell him the whole story. But Harry was afraid that if he pushed, even a bit, the spell would be broken and this strange peace would be lost to him forever. So he waited.

“It’s not something I’m proud of.” Malfoy’s gaze became fierce, like he was desperate for Harry to understand.

“You seem better now.” Harry tried to sound reassuring, because Malfoy seemed to need that.

“I’m doing…ok.” Malfoy silvery eyes bore into Harry, as if he were searching for something. “I have Longbottom to thank for that.”

 _Neville_ had helped him? “What?”

“After the war, he started helping out with counseling.” Malfoy looked surprised, like Harry should have known. And Harry had to agree, why didn’t he know about this? “He still does. He also helps with addiction counseling.”

“He was _your_ counselor?” It was a stupid question, but he had to ask it.

“Yes.” Malfoy looked into the distance, as if he could see a memory there. “I owe him my life.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing at all.

“Anyway…” Malfoy pulled himself out of his thoughts, his gaze returning to Harry and the present. It was clear that the conversation was over, that he’d say no more on the subject right now. 

“This is what I’d _originally_ wanted to give you.” Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square vial filled with a friendly-looking lilac potion. He handed the bottle to Harry, and as he did, their fingertips brushed softly, lingering for just a second. “It will help with the dreams.”

Cradling the bottle in his hand, Harry watched as the contents shimmered. “What will this do to me?” After the last potion, he wanted to be sure of _everything_ before a single drop touched his tongue.

“It will help with your dreams.” Malfoy slipped into professor mode, his worry from earlier disappearing. “It was designed to direct your dreams, rather than shut them out altogether. You will fall asleep and awaken normally, without the euphoria or crash.” That was certainly good to know.

“Yes, but will it get rid of the dreams?” Harry closed his hand around the bottle and looked up at Malfoy, fear etched into his face.

“Yes and no.” Malfoy took a step closer to Harry and reached into his palm. “It will take away your nightmares, but leave your dreams.” His dexterous fingers slid into Harry’s fist and plucked the bottle from his grasp. “You’ll be left with nothing but pleasant memories of the one who haunts you.” 

Harry wanted to reach out, wrap his hand around Malfoy’s like a seeker catching a snitch. His desire had less to do with the potion than he cared to admit. As Malfoy unscrewed the cap, Harry watched his fingers work, feeling his heart speed up slightly in response. If Malfoy noticed anything, he didn’t let on. “What do I do?” It was a stupid, _stupid_ question.

“Just take two drops before bed.” Malfoy poured two small drops of the potion into a goblet that Harry hadn’t noticed him conjure and offered it to Harry.

Eyes locked on Malfoy’s, Harry took the goblet and held it up in a one-sided toast. “Cheers.” He downed it in one.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry tossed and turned, willing sleep to come. He wasn’t sure how long ago he’d taken the potion, how long ago he’d slipped into the cot, waiting for exhaustion to take him. But even though he willed sleep to taken him, it hadn’t. Despite the physical and mental crash from Malfoy’s first potion, Harry was still wide awake, mind running. He didn’t understand it. He was _beyond_ tired, but his mind and body refused to shut down.

His head was filled to the brim with thoughts of Malfoy. 

It was like the mere thought of Malfoy was enough to stave off the most horrible bout of exhaustion.

Deep down, Harry figured he shouldn’t have been surprised by that. After all, Malfoy had always been able to get under his skin. This, however, was different than the irritation he’d felt after Malfoy’s childish antagonisms. This, whatever it was, filled Harry with _need_.

He _needed_ to know the whole story, _needed_ to know what was going on inside Malfoy’s head.

It was a terrible thought, thinking that he needed anything from Malfoy. But there it was, plain as day. Rolling onto his back, Harry tried to decide what to do about that feeling. Should he ignore it? Ignore the burning curiosity and hope that it went away? Or should he go to Malfoy, get down on his knees and beg him to tell Harry everything?

Truth be told, neither seemed liked a good option.

Where was the middle ground? Where did need and self-respect cross paths? 

Was he, Harry, even capable of middle ground?

Unable to stand his thoughts any longer, Harry rolled off the cot, hissing as his bare feet made contact with the cold stone floor. His bladder was painfully full thanks to the goblet of pumpkin juice and potion Malfoy had given him hours ago. He hoped that emptying his bladder would help him finally find sleep.

Stumbling through the dark, Harry was grateful that his and Malfoy’s rooms were laid out the same. He was sure that if bumped into anything, or broke any of Malfoy’s things, that Malfoy would hex him. Harry couldn’t blame him though; the knick-knacks lining the mantle had looked very old and very expensive. 

Bladder blissfully empty, Harry headed out of the bathroom, prepared to feel his way back to the cot. A light in Malfoy’s bedroom, however, caught his eye. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Harry padded across the sitting room and towards the bedroom. He’d planned on peeking in to try and find out where the light was coming from. But Malfoy, as always, was sneakier. “Couldn’t sleep either, I take it?” 

Stubbing his toe in shock, Harry swore quietly. He hopped in place, berating himself for entertaining the thought of spying on Malfoy. How could he have thought that _that_ was a good idea? After all, when it came to Malfoy, things never went as planned. Why should this have been any different? 

Harry took a deep breath and swallowed the rest of the pain as he stepped into the doorway of Malfoy’s room. “No.” He hovered in the door, feeling strange about actually entering the room. It felt too private, too forward, to be in the room where Malfoy slept and dreamed. 

Malfoy, arms crossed protectively over his chest, was leaning against the wall and staring out the window. A small wall sconce was lit, casting a soft glow over Malfoy’s face. In the partial darkness he looked like the ghost of the child he’d been and the man he should have been. “I’m not surprised.”

From his perch in the door, Harry could just make out the fuzzy shape of some creature swimming past Malfoy’s window. He wondered what it must have been like to see into the murky lake, instead of the Hogwarts grounds, whenever he looked out. Personally, Harry didn’t think that he’d be able to stand it. He needed the light and the sky to feel alive. “No?”

“No,” Malfoy echoed him. His mind was clearly somewhere else, somewhere far away from his bedroom in Hogwarts castle. “It’s been a long day. And night.”

“Yeah.” The words sank in, reminding Harry of what they’d been through together in the past twenty-four hours. It seemed as if they’d gone to battle, and come out of it the worse for wear. 

Malfoy didn’t say anything else, just watched the lake beyond the window. Every once in a while a ripple in the water would send a green cascade over Malfoy’s pale face. It almost looked like he was underwater as well. “You can come in, you know.”

“What? Oh. Right.” As Harry had been watching Malfoy, he’d been shifting his weight back and forth. He was torn between respecting Malfoy’s privacy and taking what he wanted. His first step over the threshold felt strange, like he was shattering some wall between them. The second step felt more natural, more right. “I didn’t want…”

“I was in your room last night.” Malfoy’s tone was neutral, a simple reminder of the facts.

“Right.” Harry was unsure about what to do, where to stand. He knew where he _wanted_ to be, and that was next to Malfoy. But how would Malfoy react to that?

“Come here.” Once again, Harry was struck by the terrible idea that Malfoy was able to read his mind. “It’s so calm out there.” Malfoy stared into the lake, not bothering to see if Harry was coming.

Harry pressed his lips together in an effort to calm his nerves. He moved towards the window, towards Malfoy, his steps feeling stiff and unsure. If Malfoy knew he was nervous, he didn’t let on, and for that, Harry was thankful.

“It’s pouring outside, but this deep down, everything seems so…calm.” The greenish light danced over Malfoy’s face, making him look as if he were underwater as well. It was strange how drawn to it he was. Harry thought of his own view, of the freedom he found in the skies, and wondered if Malfoy felt the same thing here. 

Standing next to Malfoy, Harry looked out the tiny window. But instead of focusing on the small creature shaking its spiny fist at him, he focused on the beating of his heart. The thudding threatened to break through his chest and Harry’s palms began to sweat in response. There was no way that Malfoy wouldn’t be able to hear the thunderous noise. He wanted to say something, but nothing would come out.

“Tell me about him.” Malfoy’s voice was barely a whisper in the darkened room.

Harry’s heart, once so determined to break free, skipped a beat. His first thought was, how can I tell him? His second was, how can I _not_? Malfoy, in the space of a few days, had done more to help him than his best friends had been able to do in almost a year. That’s not to say that Ron and Hermione hadn’t tried, because they had, but they hadn’t been able to break through to him like Malfoy had. 

He needed to do this.

Taking a deep breath, Harry prepared himself to open up old wounds, and possibly, create new ones. “He was a great person. A great partner.” He swallowed deeply, willing the emotion that was making his throat ache to stay down. “A great…”

“Love.” Still a whisper, Malfoy’s voice seemed to echo through the room. 

An unexpected tear slid down as Harry’s face as the truth sank in. He’d loved Jude, loved him terribly. Why was he just coming to this realization now? “I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Malfoy sighed into the darkness. “I’m completely jealous.”

“What happened to you, Malfoy?” Harry wanted to reach out and turn Malfoy’s face towards his, but he didn’t. He didn’t know how Malfoy would react and he didn’t want to lose the moment.

Malfoy reached up and pressed his fingers against the glass as a small fish with a fan tail swam by. “After the war I helped my parents rebuild the manor and the family name. But after a while, I grew…restless.” He dropped his hand, his gaze trained on his fingertips, as if they held the answers. “I started having dreams, which became nightmares. It was then that I decided to start dabbling in potion invention.” He laughed sarcastically to himself. “I quickly grew bored of failed attempts in my mother’s cauldron, so I decided to travel.” He brushed his hands together as if trying to brush away an unpleasant memory. 

“I traveled all over the world for years, training under the best potion masters our time has to offer. I learned the intricacies of inventing potions, of understanding the ingredients. And I learned about the darker side of testing unperfected potions on oneself.” Another derisive snort. 

Harry stared at him, drinking in every last word as if his life depended upon it.

“I grew tired of myself, of the affairs,” he looked up and attempted a roguish smile at Harry, but failed, “of the addiction.” Malfoy turned back to the window, his silvery eyes looking for something that wasn’t there. “So I came home.”

Harry was able to piece together the rest of the story for himself. “And then Neville.”

“And then Neville.” Malfoy nodded in the darkness. “My parents gave me an ultimatum: get my life together or lose any right to the Malfoy name or fortune.” 

“You chose to get your life together.” Harry hated the disbelief in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He knew that Malfoy had had a hard time during their sixth and (what would have been) seventh years, but he’d never have expected anything like this from him.

“My family has a _very_ large fortune, Potter.” This time, the amusement in Malfoy’s expression was real.

Harry laughed, but the room around him, the comfort he felt in it, told another story. He didn’t believe that Malfoy had cleaned up just so he could inherit his family’s galleons. But he wouldn’t push it, not tonight. 

“If you don’t mind…” Malfoy pressed his hand against his mouth in an attempt to stifle a yawn. “I think I’d like to try and get some sleep now.”

“Yeah, alright.” Harry suddenly realized how tired he was. He could only hope that he’d be able to sleep now.

With a flick of his wand, Malfoy extinguished the small wall sconce that had provided them with a faint light. Harry took that as his cue to leave, and as he slipped out the door, he swore that he heard Malfoy whisper, “Goodnight, Harry.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The second Harry’s head touched his pillow, he fell asleep.

When Jude appeared in his dreams, Harry felt himself tense up instantly, dreading what was to come. Jude merely smiled at him, and said, “There’s nothing to worry about tonight.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Morning came much more quickly than Harry would have liked. But even though he hated to leave the warmth and security of the cot, Harry felt more relaxed and well-rested than he had in months. He could barely remember his dreams, though he knew they were pleasant. All that he seemed to be able to recall was a sense of joy and peace.

Harry opened his bleary eyes to find Malfoy staring at him.

“Finally. I thought you were going to sleep all day.” Malfoy was already dressed and looked much better than he had the day before. The sleep had done them both a world of good. Once again he had a mug of steaming hot coffee in his hand, which he sipped from gingerly. A tiny flick of a wand, and a similar mug was speeding towards Harry.

“Er…” The mug bounced in front of him, magically managing to not spill a drop. Harry was positive that Malfoy had charmed the mug not to spill on the comforter. “Is this as hot as the other day? Because if it is…”

“Relax, Potter.” He sipped from his steaming mug. “I noticed that you can’t handle _yours_ that hot.” He smirked and leaned against the mantle, his elbow managing to avoid all of the precious artifacts.

Harry thought about replying with a witty retort, but after last night, he didn’t feel like he needed to. Truth be told, Harry was sort of glad that Malfoy had regained some of his snarky attitude. He felt a little unsure about things, about how the night had ended. After what they’d discussed, Harry didn’t really know where they stood. But coffee seemed like a good place to start, so he reached out for the impatient mug and took a cautious sip.

The temperature was perfect. 

And he could tell that there were two lumps of sugar and no cream in the mug, making it a steaming cup of perfection. At that moment, how Malfoy knew what he liked in his coffee didn’t matter. All that mattered was the taste of heaven sliding down his throat. 

Harry didn’t even bother to try and stop himself from sighing. 

Something that Malfoy didn’t fail to notice.

“Hmmm,” he hummed into his mug. “Like that, do you?” 

Harry felt the tips of his ears redden in embarrassment. “It’s alright.” He wasn’t about to let the fact that Malfoy had presented him with a truly wonderful mug of caffeine go to the blond’s head.

“It’s _alright_?” Malfoy eyed the mug in Harry’s hand. “Then I’ll just have it back.” He reached out and waggled his fingers in demand. “Come on then. Give it here.”

“Alright. Alright.” Harry couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “It’s bloody fantastic. Will you leave me in peace, now?” He made a show of taking another drink to appease Malfoy.

Malfoy arched a blond eyebrow wickedly. “Shall I leave you two alone?” 

Harry’s blush spread from his ears to his neck. What was happening? Why was Malfoy so… so… “I’d never have thought you were a morning person, Malfoy.” Harry knew that it sounded ridiculous, the moment it was out of his mouth. But Malfoy was staring at him, and Harry was still tucked into the cot with the most amazing mug of coffee he’d ever tasted and it all felt too…

_Right._

But it was all so wrong. 

This was Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy_. The night before he’d all but admitted that he’d loved Jude, but now that it was morning, Harry could think of lots of men he loved. Dumbledore and Sirius. And Ron, for instance. And there was _nothing_ remotely sexual about loving Ron. It was the love of family, of brotherhood. Hadn’t he loved Jude that same, exact way?

Malfoy gave Harry a serious look. “There is _loads_ you don’t know about me, Potter.” His expression shifted slightly. “Now get up so we can get your door fixed. I can’t have you lazing about my sitting room all day.”

Reluctantly, Harry swung his legs over the side of the cot, grimacing as his bare feet met the cold ground. Before moving another muscle, though, he put the mug to his lips and drank, enjoying Malfoy’s annoyed expression as he did. He would get up, but he was going to finish his coffee first.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“Tell it you’re sorry, Potter.” Malfoy, arms crossed over his chest, narrowed his eyes at Harry.

This was ridiculous. They were getting nowhere. “I _did_.” Harry placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his own gaze in response.

“Well, try it again. And this time…” The blond let his sentence trail off for full, dramatic effect, Harry was sure. “Mean it.”

Harry took a deep, calming breath, wondering where the Malfoy from an hour ago had gone. The morning had started out so peaceful, so easy. And now he was arguing, not only with Malfoy, but with a _door_ \- a door that refused to budge and accept his apology. He didn’t even know what he’d done, how on earth was he supposed to properly apologize? “Er…”

“Don’t start with ‘ _er_ ’, Potter.” Malfoy made a show of rolling his eyes in disgust. “Be direct and purposeful.”

Harry wondered to himself who had died and made Malfoy head of the speech patrol. Harry took another deep breath, something he seemed to be doing a lot of around Malfoy. “Dearest Door -”

“Dearest? Seriously? I’m sure your door can detect sarcasm.” Malfoy pushed Harry aside and placed his hand on the place where Harry knew his door was. “Lovely door -”

“How is that not sarcastic?” Harry couldn’t believe it. Malfoy had to be having him on. 

“It’s all in the delivery. Now be quiet.” He ran his hand along the stone wall before placing it purposefully at chest height. “As I was saying, I understand that somehow, unbeknownst to Mr. Potter, you’ve been horribly offend. I can hardly blame you; I know how uncouth Potter can be.”

Harry huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. This was beyond ludicrous. 

“But please, set aside your anger and grant him access.” Malfoy stroked the wall again. It was as if he were caressing the stones lovingly. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let him in, either.”

Harry felt his jaw drop open in shock. Was Malfoy trying to get the door to lock him out for good?

“But after a while, he’s really not that terrible. And I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior if you let him back in.” Speaking gently, Malfoy’s eyes met Harry’s and they sparkled in the early morning light streaming through the window. 

Did Malfoy truly mean that? Harry’s mind began to spin as he thought about what Malfoy was saying. He knew that the blond was speaking to the door, trying to get it to open for him. But it felt like Malfoy was addressing _him_. Their eyes were still locked and Harry wanted to…well, he didn’t really know what he wanted to do. Smile? Roll his eyes? Make a face at Malfoy’s blatant attempt to suck up to the door? None of it mattered, though, because all too soon the wall gave way under Malfoy’s palm and the blond disappeared inside. 

As he walked through, Malfoy held out his other hand, which Harry instinctively took. He held on, enjoying the feel of Malfoy’s long, thin fingers under his own. But once he was through the barrier, Malfoy pulled away. Harry’s hand hung pathetically in the air, searching for the connection it had just lost. 

Harry noticed Malfoy’s silvery gaze lingering on his still-outstretched hand and Harry quickly pulled it back, suddenly self-conscious. 

“You know how to reset your password, correct?” Malfoy was already moving back towards the door. It was clear that he had no intentions of sticking around.

“Yes, I do.” For some reason, Harry hated the thought of Malfoy disappearing, of leaving him alone. It was an unnerving thought, wanting Malfoy to stay with him. 

“Good, because I have no intention of resetting it for you.” Back was the confident, aloof Malfoy. The Malfoy who stood with his hands clasped behind his back and who did not bring Harry coffee. 

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Malfoy vanished through the door before he could say a single word.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Another week passed. Harry felt himself easing into the role of professor. With each passing day, lessons became easier to plan and his dealings with students were less awkward. But he still struggled with grading homework. It was just so…boring. He couldn’t help but wonder how his professors ever managed to make it through his and Ron’s work without tearing their hair out.

With the help of Malfoy’s potion, Harry dreams continued to shift into pleasant recollections and ruminations on what could have been, if only…

Many times he’d thought of approaching Malfoy, of asking him how long he should take the potion. He’d then thought up a few, albeit terrible, reasons to find Malfoy in the halls or after school hours. But each and every time he’d worked up the courage to approach the blond, he’d chickened out at the last second. He’d felt like a ridiculous second year as he’d quickly detoured down a different corridor at the sight of Malfoy’s pale blond hair, or as he’d hidden behind statues to avoid him. 

On Saturday morning, Harry made a decision. He was going to the Great Hall. He told himself that it _wasn’t_ to find Malfoy, even though he knew, without a doubt, that it was. How could it not be? After all, he could easily have breakfast summoned to his room. 

But what he craved wasn’t breakfast. 

And it wasn’t even coffee. 

When he walked into the Great Hall, Malfoy was there, sipping from a steaming mug. And there was another mug, not quite as hot, sitting next to him. Malfoy didn’t turn, didn’t look at Harry, just took another sip before saying, “Took you long enough.”

As he sat down, Harry wondered just how many mornings Malfoy had waited for him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Coffee on Saturday morning turned into coffee on Sunday and Monday morning. They quickly established a routine of meeting in the Great Hall, Malfoy already there and sipping from a mug, with one waiting for Harry. At first they sat in silence, barely even acknowledging one another beyond a greeting quip from Malfoy.

The comfortable silence slowly turned into a discussion of how Harry’s dreams had been. Harry liked to think that it was because Malfoy was worried about him. But from Malfoy’s responses and the way he reacted to the details, Harry knew that his interest was purely academic. After all, Malfoy was a potioneer and Harry was taking a potion that Malfoy had invented. Of course he’d be interested to know how it was working. 

However, soon enough their conversation turned to their respective posts as professors. Malfoy had issues with Meeks as well, noticing the same discrepancies between his classwork and homework. Harry noticed that Malfoy seemed to loathe teaching first years, but loved pushing the NEWT level students. He’d even mentioned wanting to start a Potions club for those who wanted to learn about inventing their own potions. The idea had impressed Harry and he’d encouraged Malfoy to talk to McGonagall about it.

One morning, as a comfortable silence fell upon them, Harry realized something. “Jude - Auror Markham and I used to do this,” he motioned with his mug, “before work.” It felt like so long ago now.

Next to him, Malfoy stilled. “Do you want to stop?”

Harry paused for a moment, thinking about Jude. When he responded, he knew that this was just one more step in reclaiming his life. “No.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, but somehow morning coffee had turned into lunch in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and dinner in the Potions dungeon. It was odd, sneaking their meals away from the Great Hall like teenagers, but it felt safer than trying to sit next to each other at the head table. Harry didn’t know how Malfoy felt about it, but for him, the Hall felt too exposed. Even in the morning, after finishing their coffee, they always made sure to be gone before a single student showed up.

Shared meals revealed a fondness for sweets in Malfoy and mutual love of pot roast with potatoes and carrots. Harry also discovered that Malfoy still drank pumpkin juice with his meals, despite the options of firewhisky and butterbeer. It wasn’t that Malfoy didn’t enjoy a glass of mead, or something stronger, he just didn’t care for alcohol while eating. Harry had teased him more than once about how sophisticated, upper class witches and wizards were supposed to always drink wine with dinner. But that always ended with Malfoy tossing a biscuit at his head. And while it was entertaining, Harry didn’t particularly enjoy trying to get crumbs out of his hair. 

One Saturday night, tucked away in the back of the Potions classroom, Harry and Malfoy dug into a savory stew. As had become tradition, Malfoy had transfigured two of the stools into comfortable, high-backed chairs and another into a small table. It was cozy and quiet, but Harry refused to admit that it was also romantic. 

While they ate, they talked about their day, the start of Quidditch season, and the progress Malfoy was making with his Potions club. He’d approached McGonagall about it and she’d been intrigued. Now Malfoy had to draw up plans and safety procedures to ensure that there would be no major accidents from underage students inventing and brewing their own potions. As Malfoy talked, his face lightened and he began to gesture with his hands. The movements were small, but they made him look alive and excited. 

Smiling, Harry reached out to grab a roll, not noticing that Malfoy was about to do the same. When their hands met, Malfoy stopped talking and the smile slid from Harry’s face. Up till now, they hadn’t touched since Malfoy had pulled Harry through his door. There’d been plenty of times when they could have, but an invisible wall seemed to have formed between them, preventing them from making contact. But now, with skin against skin…

Harry felt something shatter between them. 

He let his hand linger, watching Malfoy for a cue on how to respond. He partly thought, partly hoped, that Malfoy might look up at him and smile. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to pull his hand away and tuck it under the table. The rejection stung more than Harry cared to admit, but he wasn’t about to let Malfoy see that he’d hurt him. 

Trying to recover from the moment, Harry picked up the roll and offered it to Malfoy, who was staring intently at his stew. “Want it?” When Malfoy looked up at him, there was a storm brewing in his silvery eyes. Harry wished he knew what it meant.

“No.” Malfoy tried to smile politely, but failed. “No, thank you.” He lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth and ate it.

Confused, Harry thought about dropping the roll back onto the plate. But he was struck by a sudden urge. They’d both wanted it, so why should neither of them end up with it? Ripping it in half, Harry set one part of the roll by Malfoy’s dish before dunking his own half into his stew. Watching to see how Malfoy would respond, Harry bit off a chunk of the soaked bread and began to chew. 

Malfoy ignored the offering, sticking to spooning up the chunks of meat and vegetables. So Harry decided to try a different approach. Looking around the room, he spotted a large pile of scrolls on Malfoy’s desk. “Whoa, are those all graded?” He dipped the bread again, took another bite, and waited. 

At first, Malfoy didn’t respond. He pressed his lips together and tapped the bottom of his spoon against the edge of the bowl; the clinking sound seemed strangely loud in the quiet room. After a moment, Malfoy’s eyes flicked over to the pile. “Yes, I finished those earlier.”

“I hate marking papers.” He really, _really_ did. There were days when he thought about quitting just so he wouldn’t have to grade another essay. 

“You would.” Malfoy snorted. Harry turned back just in time to see Malfoy’s pale hand sneak out and pick up the half a roll Harry had given him; he didn’t say anything, just smiled triumphantly to himself. “Grading essays is simply another form of judging others.” He pulled off a piece of the roll and popped it into his mouth.

Harry laughed. “Which you’re great at.” Years ago, the fact that Malfoy so easily judged others infuriated Harry, now it seemed like nothing more than a minor character flaw.

Malfoy smiled smugly and nodded, which only served to make Harry laugh more. “Bring your un-marked essays by my room tomorrow night, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“I shudder to think about how you grade your essays, Malfoy…” Harry made a show of shivering, which earned him a piece of roll to the head. Even as he yelled, “hey!” at the blond, Harry felt his pulse speed up just a bit. The thought of spending some time with Malfoy, in his rooms… 

Terrified him just as much as it exhilarated him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“We need mead!” Harry was barely through Malfoy’s door, their hands clasped firmly together. “Rosmerta’s best, I think.” Malfoy dropped Harry’s hand and spun to face him. The change was so abrupt that Harry ran smack into him, the scrolls in his arms flying everywhere. “Would you please mind your feet.” Malfoy flicked his wand and Harry’s essays arranged themselves in a pile next to one of the armchairs. Before Harry could even say thanks, Malfoy had turned towards a small table with two goblets sitting on it with a blue bottle of mead in between. Harry felt as if he’d been caught up in a whirlwind.

Malfoy’s greeting was so strange that Harry wondered if Malfoy had already dipped into the mead. Harry had never seen him drunk, or even tipsy, but this Malfoy seemed too wired to be sober. “Malfoy…” 

“Hmmm?” A flick of Malfoy’s wand and the bottle was uncorked and pouring a healthy amount into each of the glasses. Miraculously, Malfoy’s control seemed to be intact as he managed not to spill a single drop. If Harry had tried that trick while drinking, half the bottle would have ended up on the floor.

Harry eyed the blond, wondering if maybe he should suggest something a little less intoxicating instead. “I thought we were grading essays.” The bottle set itself down on the table and the two goblets, chilled and filled, made their ways to Harry and Malfoy. Harry didn’t pluck his out of the air. “I thought you were going to show me how it’s done.” 

Malfoy looked at him seriously. “And _this_ ,” he plucked his own goblet out of the air, “is how it’s done.” He waved the glass under his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the mead, before raising it to his lips. “Come now, Potter. Grab an essay and drink up.”

Still not convinced that everything was ok with Malfoy, Harry plucked his own goblet out of the air. Malfoy smiled slyly, waiting for him to taste the mead. Not breaking eye contact, Harry raised the goblet to his mouth and sipped - only sipped. A small voice inside of Harry was telling him that getting drunk tonight would not end well. 

When Harry pulled his lips away from the rim, Malfoy’s eyelids dropped ever so slightly. “Excellent,” the blond whispered. “Now…where shall we begin?”

A few hours later, Harry had a small stack of essays at his feet that he’d graded, whereas Malfoy had made it through all of his third years. Harry couldn’t understand it. Malfoy was sprawled out on his chair, the top two buttons of his black shirt undone. He looked the picture of relaxation (unlike when Harry had first arrived), his mead in one hand and an eagle feather quill in the other. He had a scroll magically unrolled on his lap and Harry could see his eyes moving over the lines rapidly. 

Harry was just about to ask him _how_ he was going so fast when Malfoy snorted. “Listen to this…” He cleared his throat and read aloud from the essay on his lap. “The wolfsbane potion is good for help with those who have werewolfism…” Malfoy sipped from his glass before exclaiming, “Werewolfism! Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous, Potter?”

Looking at Malfoy, Harry had a sudden, and unpleasant, image of Snape sitting in the same chair, a glass of mead in his hand and a red-inked quill. Was this how all the teachers managed to make it through grading? He sincerely hoped not. He could just imagine Hermione’s face if she were to see Malfoy now. 

“Read me something from yours! I bet yours are even worse.” Malfoy smiled at him as he hastily scribbled something at the top of the parchment. Harry was pretty sure that he didn’t want to know _what_ the final mark had been. 

Harry dropped his gaze to the essay on his lap. “Er…” 

Malfoy sighed audibly. “I thought we’d discussed your horrible reliance upon the word _er_.” He motioned in the air with his goblet. “If you can even call _er_ a word.”

Harry stared at him, wondering if this was a battle worth picking. Deciding against it, he went back to looking at the essay he’d been grading. “Grindylows live in the lake and are small and green. They like to hurt witches and wizards…” Harry couldn’t go on. While the essay was mostly correct, it was just so…

“T!” Malfoy raised his glass, toasting Merlin only knew who. “T! T! T!”

Harry struggled to fight back a laugh. “It does _not_ deserve a T, Malfoy.” Maybe a D, though. A D seemed more appropriate. 

Once again Malfoy proclaimed, “T!”

Ignoring Malfoy’s suggestion, Harry pressed the tip of his quill to parchment and scratched a large D at the top. He expected more from third years. Re-rolling the scroll and dropping it on the floor, Harry reached for a new one. As he did, he said, “I bet you give out a lot of T’s.”

Calming down, Malfoy inhaled the scent of the mead again. “I do.” His eyes were shut and a few strands of hair had slipped lose and were hanging in front of his face. He looked so young, so peaceful.

“Why are you so hard on them?” Harry could just as easily have been asking Malfoy why he was so hard on himself.

Malfoy didn’t hesitate to answer. “I demand the best from them, just as a Malfoy demands the best in everything he does. You will only earn and achieve the best if you _demand_ it.” His eyes were haunted by some unseen ghost. 

Harry hated himself for asking. Malfoy’s answer told him so much about the small, blond child Harry had met at Madam Malkin’s. Harry had never thought about it then, but it couldn’t have been easy growing up in the Malfoy Manor, not with that type of family motto. “I…”

“Now, where were we?” Malfoy looked back down, almost surprised to see another essay on his lap. “Time for another T, I believe…” He went to take a sip from his goblet, but pulled back. “This will not do…” Malfoy raised his wand to summon the bottle, but Harry jumped up before he could. The sudden movement caught Malfoy’s gaze and stilled his hand. “What are you…”

“I think you’ve had enough, Malfoy.” Harry leaned over him, one hand bracing himself on the chair, the other reaching for Malfoy’s goblet. They were close, so very close, that Harry could smell the sweet mead on Malfoy’s breath and the heady cologne on his neck. The scent was intoxicating and Harry wanted more of it; wanted to press his face into Malfoy’s neck and inhale deeply, his fingers sliding through the sleek blond strands of Malfoy’s silky hair. 

And for a moment, a blissful, terrifying, horrifying, thrilling moment, Harry thought that he might do just that.

As the desire to act seeped into his bones, Harry felt his heart speed up and his breathing shallow. He wanted to move, to give in, but Malfoy’s eyes, his silvery eyes were staring at Harry questioningly and the bore the sparkle of someone who wasn’t fully in control, of someone who’d had too much to drink. 

And… 

He couldn’t do it. He remembered the Christmas party where he’d kissed Jude, how he’d hid behind the guise of them both being drunk. Harry didn’t want that again, and he didn’t want to take advantage of Malfoy. Things seemed so precarious between them as it was, he didn’t want to completely ruin what was turning out to be the start of a good friendship because his hormones were acting up.

Then there was the fact that he wanted to bury his face in another man’s neck. The fact that, even as he thought about it, Harry could feel that desire curling through his body, taking root as if it _belonged_ there. He couldn’t… He didn’t…

It took all of the strength Harry possessed, but he convinced himself to pull away from the temptation. But before he could even breathe, Malfoy sat up in his chair and pressed their mouths together. The touch was light, almost unsure, like Malfoy was asking for permission. 

All of Harry’s instincts and fears seemed to melt away at the touch, at the feel of Malfoy’s firm lips against his own. He couldn’t move, couldn’t respond, despite the fact that everything within him was crying out that yes, this was right, _this_ was what he wanted, what he _needed_. 

Before he could even think about returning the kiss, Draco pulled away, slumping back into the armchair. His cheeks were tinged red and his eyes, once sparkling, were now flat. “You’re right, I have had too much.” He laughed breezily, but it never reached his eyes. 

Harry felt instantly cold. He’d screwed up, he knew it. He wanted…he didn’t even know _what_ he wanted now. A few seconds ago everything seemed so clear, so obvious, but now everything seemed wrong. 

“Why don’t you pour me another?” Malfoy nodded towards the half-empty bottle of mead. “That way this will be completely forgotten about come morning.” Harry could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant, like it didn’t really matter, but all of the joy was gone out of him. 

Harry hadn’t realized that he was still leaning over Malfoy until he’d had to stand up. He reached out for the bottle, wondering if this was it for them. “If that’s what you want…” He hoped and prayed to Merlin that it wasn’t. 

“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy held out his goblet and waited. “It is.”

Reluctantly, Harry tipped the blue bottle over the rim of the goblet and poured. As the basin filled, Harry watched Malfoy. His face, so open and relaxed before, was shut down, devoid of any emotion. At that moment, Harry would have done anything to erase the past few minutes, to make everything right again. But he didn’t know how. 

“Cheers!” Malfoy raised his re-filled goblet and toasted Harry before downing it in one.

Perhaps Malfoy wanted to forget what had just happen, but Harry wasn’t so sure that _he_ did.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry went to bed that night feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut. Malfoy had kissed him. _Kissed_ him. How was that possible? Things were just starting to make sense in his life; teaching was getting easier and he was spending more time away from his room and amongst the students. He’d even given an impromptu flying lesson for the Gryffindor Quidditch team the other day. Granted, that had earned him a visit to McGonagall’s office and a lecture about the importance of not showing house preference, but still, he’d enjoyed himself. He was starting to feel almost normal again.

But Malfoy…

Malfoy’s lips against his own…

Soft and waiting…

Silently asking for permission…

He couldn’t take it. During his time at Hogwarts he’d had two crushes, Cho and Ginny, and he’d gone on to love one of them. Never once, in that time, had he ever thought about other boys like _that_. He’d never sneaked a peek at his team mates in the Quidditch showers, or wondered what it would have been like to sneak away to the Astronomy tower with another bloke. 

So why now? Why was this happening to him _now_? 

Harry wanted to blame Jude, to say that it was all his fault, but he knew that that wasn’t fair. Jude had never pushed, had never made him feel uncomfortable. In fact, Jude had very much respected Harry’s personal space. 

It just didn’t make any sense to him. 

Harry fell asleep, asking himself, “Why is this happening _now_?”

“Hey there…” Jude stood before him, smiling softly. His hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the base of his neck and he was wearing a Weird Sisters t-shirt.

Harry reached out and pressed his fingers against the capital S of sisters. “I never got to give this to you.” He let his hand fall away, remembering the day he’d picked out the shirt. Jude’s wardrobe consisted mainly of concert t-shirts, some old, some new, _all_ muggle. Harry had found this one and bought it as a joke. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas.”

Jude caught Harry’s hand and pressed it to his chest. Underneath his palm, Harry could feel his heart beating, strong and sure. “I know.” 

“How…” Harry remembered being so proud of himself as he’d wrapped the gift in sparkling red-and-green striped paper. He’d even topped it with a twinkling bow. To be honest, it was obnoxious in all of its striped, sparkling, blinking, Christmas-y glory, but that was the whole point. It had made him laugh, and he’d known that Jude would react the same way. After putting the finishing touches on it, he’d hidden the box in his bedroom closet. 

It was still there.

“Doesn’t matter.” Jude shrugged and gently dropped Harry’s hand.

“Then what does?” It came out sounding desperate and pleading, but Harry couldn’t help it. He was so confused, so torn up. 

Jude reached out and placed his hand on Harry’s cheek, his fingertips rough and calloused against Harry’s skin. “Are you happy?”

“I…” No. Maybe. Kind of. Getting there. 

Jude nodded and dropped his hand to Harry’s shoulder. He squeezed gently and Harry was reminded of all the times he’d done the same thing in real life. It was wonderfully comforting, but it reminded him of how much he’d lost. “You need to be happy.”

“It’s not that easy.” Harry’s voice was an apologetic whisper.

“I know.” Jude dropped his hand and the sudden loss of contact made Harry’s heart ache. He wanted to reach out, pull the hand back, but he didn’t. “But you need to try. _This_ ,” Jude reached out and wiped a tear from Harry’s cheek, a tear that he hadn’t even realized had fallen, “isn’t helping.”

Unable to stand it any longer, Harry reached up and grabbed Jude’s hand. “I miss you so much.”

A sad smile crossed Jude’s face; there was a faint glimmer of tears in his clear blue eyes. “I know.” 

“What do I do?” Harry could feel himself stirring, waking up. Desperate to stay with Jude, he clung to his hand painfully.

Jude clutched onto Harry just as hard. “Find someone who makes you happy, Harry.” 

Harry knew that he meant it.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

He woke up not long after with Jude’s words hanging in his heart and mind. Find someone who makes him happy. It sounded so simple. Ron made him happy. Hermione made him happy. But Harry knew that Jude didn’t just mean _happy_. He meant…find someone who touches you so deeply that you can’t help but be filled with joy at the mere thought of them.

Jude had done that for him.

How could he possibly find that again?

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

After pulling himself out of bed and getting dressed, Harry made his way to the Great Hall, unsure of what he’d find. After what had happened the night before, he expected to find Malfoy’s preferred seat at the Slytherin table empty. The rest of the grading session, if you could call it that, had gone smoothly enough. But their goodbyes had been awkward and stilted, almost as if the past few weeks were merely an elaborate daydream.

Before walking inside, Harry stopped and took a deep breath to try and calm his mounting nerves. His stomach was in knots and his hands were shaking. What if Malfoy wasn’t there? What would he do then? Shaking his head, Harry told himself that he was being ridiculous. Things hadn’t been awkward after his kiss with Jude, why should this be any different?

One step over the threshold and Harry’s head was drawn to the long Slytherin table. His heart pounded painfully as he slid his gaze along it. Seat after empty seat, until...

Malfoy.

As always, Malfoy was there, hunched over his morning mug of coffee. 

Harry’s relief was so intense that he practically cried out to the blond. It was ridiculous and embarrassing, but his feet took him to Malfoy’s side so fast that he was all but running. He stood behind him for a second, trying to think of something to say, something to do, that would _not_ make him look like a fool.

But Malfoy beat him to it. “Sit down or leave, Potter.” He groaned and rubbed his temples. “I cannot deal with you bouncing around back there.” 

Not needing to be told twice, Harry plopped down next to Malfoy, noticing his own mug of coffee for the first time. He reached out for it, willing his hand to stop trembling. He didn’t know what to say, so he settled for, “Morning.” Still unsure about how Malfoy might act after last night, Harry decided to wait and follow his lead.

“Shhh….” Malfoy hissed.

Well, that certainly hadn’t been one of the reactions Harry had been expecting. The mug poised before his mouth, Harry looked over at Malfoy. His mouth fell open in shock and he almost spilled his coffee on his lap. “You look terrible.” And he did. Malfoy’s normally sleek blond hair was frizzy and unwashed, his eyes were bloodshot and his skin, if possible, was ever paler than normal.

“Thank you for that keen assessment of my personal appearance.” Malfoy winced and reached up to rub his temple again. “Now would you _please_ lower your voice. I prefer to suffer in silence.”

Despite Malfoy’s pain, Harry stifled a laugh with his mug. He’d been hung over more than once himself. But that wasn’t all; no, despite Malfoy’s horrid appearance, Harry was overjoyed that Malfoy was still talking to him. Whether or not things were still normal between them remained to be seen, but this was something, at least.

“ _Why_ ,” despite Malfoy’s begging for quiet, he whined, “did you let me drink so much last night?” 

That caused Harry’s mouth, once blissfully filled with hot coffee, to go dry. The honest answer was ‘Because you asked me to’, but he couldn’t say that. So far, Malfoy seemed like he didn’t remember what had happened the night before, and if that was the case, then Harry didn’t want to ruin that for him. 

He settled on a different truth instead. “Malfoy, you were well on your way to being drunk when I arrived.” -A fact that still bothered Harry somewhat. 

“True.” Malfoy nodded and groaned pathetically.

“There are a few well-known potions that will get rid of your hangover, you know?” Oddly enough, that thought had just occurred to Harry. Why, if Malfoy was such a brilliant Potions Master, had he not brewed himself something already?

“Don’t be thick, of course I know.” Malfoy pressed his lips together and for a terrible moment, Harry thought that he was going to puke. 

He eyed Malfoy, wondering if he should prepare a bucket or something. “Then why don’t you…” 

“Can’t,” Malfoy answered simply. “Any potion that has a pain-relieving component is potentially addictive. Longbottom would throw me back in St. Mungo’s if I took anything like that.”

“But the mead,” Harry looked at Malfoy, suddenly curious. “Isn’t that addictive?” 

“Not my poison, Potter.” Malfoy held up his mug is mock salute. “I can hold my liquor just fine. Potions are another story.”

“But then… How can you be a Potions Master? Aren’t you constantly tempted?” If things had been as bad as Malfoy had said, how could he possibly be around potions all the time?

“Look Potter, it is far too early and I am far to hung over for this conversation.” He pressed his eyes shut, but continued to speak. “I was addicted to _one_ type of potion. It is merely a precaution that I stay away from a certain strand of potions. It’s not like a vial of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion is going to send me over the edge.”

“Ok…” Harry didn’t know whether or not to believe him, but he would take his word for it. He was sure that McGonagall wouldn’t have hired Malfoy if the job was dangerous to his health, or the students’.

“Now that that is settled,” Malfoy stared into his empty mug. “I’m headed back to bed.”

“Er,” Malfoy eyed Harry through heavily lidded eyes and Harry almost apologized. _Almost_. “About last night…” He didn’t know why he was bringing it up, in fact, he was mentally cursing himself for bringing it up, but he couldn’t just ignore what had happened.

Malfoy paused, whether in shock or to still a wave of nausea, Harry didn’t know. “Yes?”

Harry searched Malfoy’s face, looking for some recognition, some sign that he hadn’t _really_ forgotten about the kiss, but his face was a blank slate. “Nothing, never mind.” His heart sank; a tiny part of him had hoped that Malfoy would remember. “Do you want help getting back to your room?”

The look on Malfoy’s face turned to one of mild disgust. “I’m hung over, Potter. Not an invalid.” 

“Right.” Harry nodded, looking down at his lap he searched his mind for something to say, but nothing came to him. It didn’t matter, though; when he looked back up, Malfoy was gone. 

How was Harry supposed to find someone who made him happy if he couldn’t even handle Malfoy?

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“I screwed up.” A week had passed since the kiss and things were still…off. It was slight, but there was a lingering tension between them that colored their once-easy meals and discussions. For the most part, nothing had changed, but Malfoy had drawn away somewhat. They didn’t sit quite as closely together. Malfoy didn’t laugh quite as easily. They rarely made eye contact in the halls. This whatever-it-was between them was so new, but it still felt like something had been ripped away from Harry.

“What?” Walking along next to him, Neville sounded distracted. “Oi! You there…” Two students turned to look at him, their faces the picture of innocence. They were clearly guilty. “Give her back her toad before I take five points from each of your houses.” They both watched as the two boys handed a struggling toad back to a younger girl. Harry wondered if toads brought back a sense of nostalgia for Neville, but didn’t ask. 

“With Malfoy. I screwed up.” Harry’s eyes were trained on the students walking in front of them. It was a brisk November morning and they were on their way to Hogsmeade. It wasn’t the first Hogsmeade trip of the year, but it was the first one that Harry had felt comfortable going on. He was excited to see the village again and he’d made plans to meet Ron and Hermione for lunch.

“Wait…” Neville tore his eyes away from the students to look at Harry. “What did you do?”

Taken aback by the accusatory tone in Neville’s voice, Harry asked, “What do you mean, what did _I_ do?”

“You said that _you’d_ screwed up.” Neville looked at him, worry on his round face. 

“Ah, yes.” Harry felt like a prat. “I did say that.”

“Yes, you did.” The look of distress was still etched on Neville’s face. “What happened?” 

As Harry considered the worry on his friend’s face, he wondered how much Malfoy had told Neville about their friendship…or whatever it was. It seemed like ages since Harry had had a chance to talk with Neville about anything. They seemed so separate, Neville always in the greenhouses or away on call, and Harry either in the Defense Against the Dark Arts room or holed up with Malfoy somewhere. “We… I…”

“Spit it out, Harry.” Neville’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp and Harry understood why. This was not Neville Longbottom, longtime friend. This was Neville Longbottom, grief and addictions counselor.

He couldn’t tell him everything. As much as Harry wanted to, he couldn’t. “We’ve been hanging around together…” Harry searched for something to say. “Eating, grading…”

“Right,” Neville nodded as if he already knew. Had Malfoy been confiding in him about their friendship? That was a strangely worrying thought.

“Anyway…” Even if Neville knew what had happened, Harry still wasn’t comfortable with telling him _everything_. And he hoped that Malfoy hadn’t told him the whole story either. “I made a wrong move. I think I may have hurt him.”

“Oh, Harry...” Neville groaned so loud that the toad thieves turned around to look at him again. After motioning for them to mind their own business, Neville dropped his voice. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I…” Harry had felt completely awful about this for a week now, but why did Neville seem so upset?

“I know he’s told you about his past.” Neville’s voice dropped even lower as the students in front of him turned back around.

Harry nodded even though Neville wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah, we talked about it.”

“Then you know that, just like _you_ , he’s been through a lot.” Neville stopped walking, not paying attention to the students walking ahead, even though they were supposed to be watching them. “And also just like you, he’s come a _long_ way, but he’s not there yet.” Neville looked at him and his expression softened. “Neither of you are.” 

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Neville cut him off.

“He is a recovering addict and you’ve lost someone very dear to you.” Neville sighed sadly as he looked at Harry. “I’m just asking you to be careful. For both of your sakes.”

“I…yeah.” Harry had never thought of it like that. 

Neville’s expression softened, but there was something that told Harry that he was still worried. “Ok, just so you keep that in mind.”

“Wait,” a sudden idea came to Harry. Something he’d never thought of before. “Why didn’t you try to counsel me? After Jude?”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Neville reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I couldn’t have, because we’re friends.” He paused and considered Harry as if looking for the secrets to the universe. “Also, you wouldn’t have accepted my help then. It was hard enough to try and get you to talk to Ron and Hermione, let alone me.”

For the first time, Harry thought about what it must have been like for his friends. 

After Jude’s death, he’d locked himself away from the world. He just now realized that he wasn’t the _only_ person who’d lost a friend. Ron, Hermione, Neville and everyone else had quickly welcomed Jude into the fold - they’d suffered a loss just as he had. Except they’d had to try and pick up the pieces of themselves _and_ Harry as well. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Neville smiled gently and began walking again. The students were almost to Hogsmeade by then, and there was no way they’d catch up without running. “You’re doing much better now. That’s what matters.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry and Neville parted ways as they entered the small wizarding village of Hogsmeade. Neville had mumbled something about needing to pick up a package at the post office and Harry had a lunch date with Ron and Hermione. As Harry walked towards The Hog’s Head, he took in the village. It had been night when he’d arrived at the start of term and this was his first time seeing it properly in years.

Amazingly enough, the village looked pretty much the same as Harry remembered it, but for a few minor changes. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had expanded into a small shop next to Honeydukes and Madam Rosmerta’s had been freshened up with a new coat of paint. Other than that, walking along the lane was like taking a step back into his childhood. It filled him with a wonderful sense of nostalgia that was also tinged with sadness. 

So much had changed since then.

He was having a hard time fitting the person he was becoming into the memories of his old life. It wasn’t that he wanted to go back to being a child, but he also didn’t want to lose those parts of himself because he was now a grown man. He wanted to move forward without completely letting go of who he was. 

Reaching out to grab hold of the door handle to The Three Broomsticks, Harry jumped back as a group of young Ravenclaws poured out of the door, bumping into him. “Sorry, Professor Potter!,” they called as they ran up the lane. Harry laughed and made his way inside.

“Here he is, Professor Potter!” Ron jumped up from his place at the table and pulled Harry into a tight, brotherly hug. Harry laughed and patted him on the back awkwardly. Over Ron’s shoulder, Harry could see Hermione shaking her head and rolling her eyes, but smilingly anyway.

When Ron finally released him, Harry pulled Hermione into a gentle hug. Before she let him go, she whispered into his ear, “You look so much better, Harry.” When she pulled away, she patted him on the cheek in a way that reminded him instantly of Molly. 

Still standing, Ron practically hopped up and down as he asked, “Shall I get drinks?” 

Once again, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ron, go get us something to drink. But remember…” She laughed warningly and sent him on his way.

As she and Harry sat down, he got a good and proper look at her. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek bun at the base of her neck and her cheeks were rosy. “You look great.”

The tip of Hermione’s nose and her cheeks blushed a delicate shade of pink. “Thank you.” She pushed the moment aside and leveled a motherly look at Harry. “How are things, Harry?”

“Um…” He paused for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few months. When he finally answered, he felt completely truthful in saying, “Better.”

Hermione’s face split into a soft smile and she reached out to take his hand. Harry let her, curling his fingers around hers. “I’m so happy to hear that. What about the dreams? How are they?”

Harry’s emerald eyes flickered to the bar. The Hog’s Head was filled to bursting and Ron was stuck in the middle of a large crowd waiting to be served. It would be a while before he made it back to the table. “They’re…better.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hermione’s eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears. “I’ve tried to talk to Neville, but he refuses to tell me anything beyond the fact that you’re doing better.” She brushed away a stray tear as it slid down her cheek. “What changed?”

“Erm…” for a moment, Harry’s hand tensed around Hermione’s. It was a simple question, with a simple answer, but still, Harry felt uneasy answering it. “Malfoy has me tak-”

She practically gasped as she said, “Malfoy?”

Harry felt something deep within himself turn at her reaction. “Yeah, he’s the new Potions Master. He gave me this potion he invented, it helps with dreams.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes were suddenly dry of the once sparkling tears. “ _Please_ tell me you aren’t taking an unapproved potion that Malfoy has invented. You have no idea what it will do to you.”

“Yeah, I am.” He felt defiant as he looked into Hermione’s pleading eyes.

“You can’t.” She squeezed his hand painfully. “You have no idea what’s in whatever he’s giving you. It could be poison.”

“For your information,” he pulled his hand away and Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. “Neville encouraged me to get help from Malfoy. This was all _his_ idea. Think he’s out to poison me as well?” Harry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. There would be no more sympathetic hand holding today. 

“Neville?” Across from him, Hermione was wringing her hands, an old habit she still fell back on when she was unsure about something. “He told me he had something in mind. If I’d have known it involved Malfoy, I-”

“Wait, back up.” Unable to stop himself, Harry flew forward, his palms making contact with the sticky table top. “What do you mean that Neville had something in mind? Have the three of you been plotting this behind my back?”

“Oh, Harry, please don’t be angry.” Her hands twisted even more now and Harry could see that they were starting to turn red. “We all thought it was in your best interest, to get you out of your flat. Neville said he had an idea and that he’d set it all up. I - we just thought that he meant the teaching post.” Tears were starting to slide down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief and sat back in his chair. 

Neville. 

It all kept coming back to Neville Longbottom. 

Whether they’d been acting in his best interest or not, Harry was upset. Helping him get back on his feet was one thing, plotting and planning behind his back was another. His anger was irrational, he knew it, but he just couldn’t help it. Not right now, anyway.

“Harry, please say something.” Hermione reached out to him desperately. 

Thankfully, Harry was saved by Ron. Totally clueless as to what had just happened, Ron bounded up to the table, splashing liquor over the sides of the mugs he was holding. Harry jumped up and pulled them away before Ron managed to give them all a sticky shower. “Thanks, mate.” 

Empty handed, Ron stood up on a chair and shouted, “Oi! Oi!” 

Harry looked from Ron, who was trying to gather everyone’s attention, to Hermione who was blushing furiously and looking worried. Despite the large crowd, it didn’t take long for the Three Broomstick’s to fall silent.

When all eyes were finally turned to him, Ron shouted, “We’re engaged!” Harry’s mouth fell open in shock as everyone around them began cheering. “Next round is on me!” Once again the waiting crowd cheered, rushing towards a frazzled looking Rosmerta as they did.

Ron jumped down from the table and pulled Harry into a bone creaking hug. As he did, Harry felt his throat tighten up with emotion. He’d had no idea that his best friends were to that point. And if he’d missed that, how much else had he missed in the year he’d been locked away?

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

When Harry made his way back to the castle at the end of the day, he headed straight for his classroom. He had essays to grade and, as far as he knew, Malfoy wouldn’t be joining him for dinner. All he really wanted to do was go to his room and go to sleep. It had been an incredibly exhausting day, emotionally. Neville’s confrontation and Hermione’s hesitation, not to mention Ron’s announcement, had all left him reeling. Then there was the fact that this had been his _first_ journey away from the castle since he’d arrived. Yes, he’d walked the grounds for hours, but they were still part of Hogwarts. Journeying into the village hadn’t been easy for him.

He wished that he could speak to Malfoy about it. Or…maybe not about his feelings, because Harry really couldn’t see a discussion about feelings with Malfoy ending well after the supposedly forgotten kiss. But the thought of sitting with Malfoy, listening to him ramble on about his Potions club, or whatever else, would have been soothing. But things with Malfoy were still off and Harry didn’t want to push his luck. Especially after what Neville had said to him. 

So Harry decided that the best thing to do was to grade essays alone, in his classroom. For the most part, he was staying on top of them, but there was still a pile that needed to be addressed. Saturday night and he was about to grade papers. Though, Harry thought, it was much better than what he’d have been up to if he’d stayed in London. There, Saturday nights had meant curling up with Chinese takeout, a muggle movie, and a few too many beers, and not changing his clothes until Monday morning. 

One step into his office, and Harry froze. Malfoy was lying on his stomach, next to Harry’s desk, his arms outstretched. Without thinking, Harry bolted forward and dropped to his knees next to Malfoy. His knees ached from their sudden contact with the stone floor, but Harry didn’t care. All he cared about was Malfoy. And as his heart thudded, Harry remembered Neville telling him to be careful with Malfoy, that he was a recovering addict. 

Was this because of Harry? 

Because of Malfoy’s addiction?

Reaching out, he tried to pull Malfoy into his arms, ignoring everything but the thought of Malfoy on his floor. This couldn’t be happening to him. Not again. Harry was filled with a blinding sense of terror and dread that set every nerve in his body on fire. “No, no, no…”

Malfoy half-rolled into his arms, crushing Harry’s legs awkwardly. “Potter!” He struggled against Harry, and it was then, as Malfoy fought to regain control, that he realized that Malfoy was alive. Angry, but alive. “What are you doing?” His face drained of color at the sight of Harry. 

Flooded with relief, Harry crushed Malfoy to his chest. He held onto him, not caring how Malfoy might react. He thought the blond might continue to fight, but he didn’t. Instead he stilled, not wrapping his arms around Harry, but placing his hands on his shoulders reassuringly. 

In his arms, Malfoy felt so small. Malfoy had always been slender, bordering on thin, but Harry had never imagined what he’d actually feel like in his arms. Now that Malfoy was there, held so tightly and so perfectly against him, Harry never wanted to let him go. “I thought…”

“Deep breaths…” Malfoy slowly slid his right hand over Harry’s shoulder, soothing the tense muscles there. 

Surprisingly enough, Harry found himself doing as Malfoy told him, taking deep breaths through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Slowly, his heartbeat calmed down and he was able to think straight. “I thought you were…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Malfoy worked his hand around to the base of Harry’s neck, gently kneading the knots of tension that had formed there in a few seconds’ time. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t…” Harry clutched Malfoy tighter, knowing that he must have been hurting him. But if the pressure was too much, Malfoy didn’t let on. “I can’t lose you, too.” The words fell out of Harry’s mouth without his permission. 

So very gently, painfully gently, Malfoy pressed his forehead into Harry’s, the touch a solid reminder of what was real. “I’m right here.”

Harry blinked, his eye lashes fluttering in panic. Malfoy was _so_ close and he was _so_ warm in Harry’s arms. When his sight finally adjusted, he found Malfoy’s liquid silver eyes trained intently on his. This close up, Harry could see the storm that lurked just beneath the surface in the tiny flecks of dark blue that tinted the silver. He wanted to say something, but he was speechless. 

“I’m here,” Malfoy reassured him. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Harry nodded, Malfoy’s face mirroring his movement. He needed to blink, but was terrified that if he did, Malfoy would disappear and that he’d be left alone. When the need became too great, he allowed his eyes to barely fall shut before they sprang open again. Harry was beyond relieved when Malfoy was still there, holding him, staring at him. 

“Better?” Harry watched as Malfoy’s eyes searched his face, looking for some sign of…something.

Once again, Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Very slowly, Malfoy pulled away. Not completely, but just enough so that he could sit properly. His hand still lingered at Harry’s neck, gently rubbing the muscles there. Harry responded by loosening his grip, but he didn’t let go. “I promise you, Harry,” his name fell so easily from Malfoy’s mouth that Harry would have sworn he’d said it a thousand times before. He wanted to hear it again and again and again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry took another deep breath and swallowed the bile that had risen up in the back of his throat. “What were you doing down there?” He looked at his own arm where it curved around Malfoy’s back, marveled at how natural it seemed. 

“I dropped something and it rolled under your desk.” The hand massaging his neck slid back to Harry’s shoulder. “I was just trying to find it.”

“Your wand,” he practically moaned. “Why didn’t you just use your wand?”

“I accidentally left it in the dungeons.” Draco Malfoy left his wand in the dungeons? Harry could hardly believe that, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered that was Draco was alive. 

Absently, Harry asked, “What did you drop?”

“Doesn’t matter right now.” Malfoy pulled himself out of Harry’s grasp and though he hated to do it, Harry let him go. 

Unable to support his own weight, Harry slumped back against his desk and closed his eyes. He focused on the beating of his heart, the heavy breaths that made his chest rise and fall with much more weight than normal. He could hear and feel Malfoy moving next to him and he wondered if Malfoy was using this as his escape. 

Instead of leaving though, Malfoy settled in next to him, their knees, hips and shoulders pressed together. The touches were light, but the comfort they gave him made something deep within Harry stir. He hadn’t realized it before now, but he was so starved for physical contact from someone who wasn’t Ron or Hermione that it brought tears to his eyes. Malfoy’s presence next to him was so real, so _alive_. He wanted it, needed it _so_ badly that he could barely stand himself right then. 

He didn’t know if Malfoy had read it in his mind, or if just maybe he felt the same way himself, but he reached out and took Harry’s hand in his own. He didn’t lace their fingers together like some sentimental couple might do, but he held on for all he was worth. And as far as Harry was concerned, that was quite a lot. 

Harry squeezed back just as hard as Malfoy held onto him.

“Tell me what happed that day.” It wasn’t a request. “I read the reports in the Prophet, but…”

Harry swallowed deeply, willing the painful sting of tears he felt to go away. “We were called out to a scene, nothing special. Seemed like any other case.” A traitorous tear slid over Harry’s cheek as he remembered the day Jude had died. “We arrived and everything seemed quiet. Then, out of nowhere, three dark wizards appeared. We managed to restrain and disarm two of them, but the third…” 

Malfoy didn’t urge him on, didn’t speak. He just waited patiently for Harry to continue.

“The third cast a curse at Jude, something I’d never heard of before - and haven’t heard of since.” Despite the painful grip on his hand, Harry felt it begin to tremble. “I tried to help, but there was _nothing_ I could do. He, um, Jude died in my arms.” Harry left out the gorier details; he couldn’t bring himself to recall them. As it was, his face was slick with tears and his chest was heaving.

“What happened to the wizard?” Malfoy’s voice was cool and controlled, but Harry could hear the faint hint of pain underneath it.

“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He’d been asked to help out with the case, as a witness, but Harry had refused. “And I don’t care. All that matters is that Jude is gone.” Harry buried his face in Malfoy’s shoulder, his sobs echoing harshly through the classroom. The hard stone floor was making his tailbone ache and his shoulders cut painfully into the desk, but he couldn’t move. “He was taken from me. And I’ll never… I’ll never…”

Malfoy let go of his hand and wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in to his body. Desperate to hold onto something, Harry found Draco’s thigh under his hand and clung for dear life. It was such an intimate place to touch someone, but there was nothing sexual about it. Under his straining grip, Malfoy’s leg was a lifeline, an anchor, and he needed it desperately.

Malfoy didn’t try to comfort him with the useless platitudes that Harry had been constantly plied with over the past year. He didn’t tell him that it was ok and that everything was going to be alright. He didn’t even try to calm him down. Instead, he clung to Harry and whispered, “Let it all out.”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry didn’t know how long he cried, or how long they stayed like that. All he knew was that Malfoy never left him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Harry made his way to the Great Hall. As usual, Malfoy was there with a cup of coffee waiting for him. It was perfect, as always; not too hot, not too cold, and two sugars. They sat together in comfortable silence until an owl soared over them and landed in front of Harry.

The owl’s tawny feathers and jewel-bright eyes were instantly recognizable to Harry. This was Archimedes, Hermione’s owl. He stuck out a feathered leg with a tiny scroll tied to it and eyed Draco’s coffee. Harry was shocked when Draco offered the mug to the bird who drank deeply from its depths. 

Reaching out and stroking the back of the bird’s head, Malfoy snorted. “Even this owl can handle his coffee hotter than you.”

Harry scowled as he pulled the scroll from Archimedes’ outstretched leg. Once he was free of his burden and had had enough to drink, the owl took off in a great swooping of wings that almost knocked Harry’s mug over. 

“That was a beautiful bird,” Malfoy remarked before sipping from his mug. Harry watched him in shock; he’d never have thought that Draco Malfoy would have drunk from the same mug as an owl. “Well, who is it from?”

“Hermione,” Harry said absentmindedly as he unrolled the scroll.

“Ah,” Malfoy said, he voice devoid of expression. Normally that would have bothered Harry, but right now he was too wrapped up in the letter.

Hermione’s handwriting was small and precise and Harry had to strain his eyes to read it. 

_”Dear Harry,_

_I am so sorry about Ron. I begged him to let us tell you first, but you know how he is. It really wasn’t fair to you. I wish we’d have been able to tell you properly.”_ Harry paused, wondering if she thought he was a child who needed his hand held. Was this what he’d become to them? A burden that needed to be danced around? He hated the thought that he’d changed their lives because of his grieving. _That_ was what wasn’t fair.

He read on, _”I’m sorry about the way I reacted to the news about Malfoy. I shouldn’t have. I trust you Harry, but I don’t trust him. I can’t help that.”_ His breath hitched and he prayed that Malfoy wasn’t reading the letter over his shoulder. _“All my love, Hermione.”_

Harry was just about to shove the note in his pocket when he noticed another line that had been hidden under his thumb. _”P.S. Please owl back and tell me you’re still coming round to the Burrow for Christmas. You deserve the cheer and everyone is desperate to see you.”_

The Christmas holidays were right around the corner. How had he forgotten? Last year, he’d refused to leave his flat, refused to even let anyone inside. And now… Now he was out of London, in a new job, trying to form a new life, while regaining some of what he’d lost. 

“Well,” Malfoy took a careful, measured sip. “What did she want?”

Harry re-rolled the scroll and stuck it in his back pocket. “Wanted to know if I was coming round for Christmas.”

“And are you?” Malfoy’s voice was just as careful and controlled as his sip had been.

“Yeah.” Harry thought about it. Come Christmas it would be a year, a whole year since Jude’s death. It seemed right to spend that time with those he loved the most. “I think I am.”

Malfoy didn’t respond.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Monday morning came all too soon, as far as Harry was concerned. Once again his essays were unmarked and he had no real plans for what to teach. As he stared at the expectant first years before him, he felt frozen, terrified, like he had the very first day of term. The only difference was that on his first day, he’d come up with a brilliant way to approach them. Today, however, he had nothing. “Er…”

The hand of a small, speccy Slytherin girl shot into the air. His fingers waggled impatiently and she bobbed in her seat. Harry was suddenly struck by how Hermione must have looked to their professors, impossibly young and impossibly bright. “Yes, Miss Havoc?”

“Professor, I was just wondering,” she blushed furiously. “Can you tell us about the Chamber of Secrets?” Her hand was still in the air, even though she was asking her question. “There are just so many rumors. And it _would_ be educational as we’re studying dark creatures and how to defend against them.”

Harry smiled at her, wondering if she knew she’s just saved him. After all, Hermione would have known.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The day finally came to a blissful end and Harry dropped into his chair in relief. All day he’d lectured his students, telling them about his own experiences and relating them to what they were currently studying. It had worked out wonderfully, but Harry needed to get on top of his grading and planning. There wouldn’t always be a way out if he wasn’t prepared.

Draco hadn’t shown up for lunch, and Harry had spent his hour shoveling chicken and potatoes into his mouth as he scanned the essays. He gave out a few O’s, a handful of E’s and a lot of A’s. With Malfoy’s words ringing in his ears, Harry also doled out a few more T’s than normal. 

Though he’d certainly made some headway, Harry hadn’t even gotten through a third of the essays he needed to grade. And so he settled in, the crisp sunshine of a beautiful winter day spilling through the window and over his desk. He’d have loved a walk, but his work needed to be completed first. With a sigh, Harry pulled a scroll towards him and unrolled it. 

And hour and six painful essays later, Harry scratched a large A onto an essay about Disarming. Letting it go, he watched the curly parchment spring back into a roll with a swish. Picking it up, he attempted to toss into the basket with the rest, but it hit the edge, and rolled under his desk. Harry swore as he watched it disappear.

Dropping to the floor, Harry tried to block images of Malfoy lying there from his mind. Logically, he knew that Malfoy was fine, but the vision still lingered in his mind. As he reached under his desk, it hit him. Malfoy lying on the floor, trying to pick up something he’d dropped. He’d told Harry not to worry about it, but now he couldn’t help but wonder just what Malfoy had dropped. Stretching out an arm, Harry’s fingers reached and searched. His fingers landed, almost instantly, on the scroll he’d been grading, which he pulled out and tossed onto his chair. 

Plunging his arm into the unknown again, Harry felt his heartbeat pick up a little. What could Malfoy possibly have been…

His desperate fingers finally landed on a small scroll, tied with what felt like ribbon. “Gotcha.” Pulling his arm back out, Harry sat on the ground, not bothering to return to his chair just yet. The scroll was small, about the size of the one he’d received from Hermione, and it was tied up with a thin silver ribbon that had been knotted, but not bowed. 

Full of curiosity and excitement, Harry slid the silver ribbon off of the note. With shaking hands he unrolled it. _“Potter,_ As he read his surname, Harry was filled with a vague memory of Malfoy calling him Harry the other night. Seeing ‘Potter’ in Malfoy’s slanting scrawl made Harry feel like he’d lost something. _“I’m sorry I’ve been so absent lately, both minded and physically. I’ve been detained during lunch and dinner quite a bit recently. Perhaps you would let me make it up to you with dinner in my room tonight?”_ Harry stared at the note in confusion. They’d still been eating together, although not as much as they had before their shared grading session. And yes, Malfoy had been acting distant since. But this was so formal. If Malfoy wanted to have dinner together, why didn’t he just show up like he normally did?

He was about to reroll the scroll when he remembered Hermione’s letter and the post script. Sure enough, there was a line right under Malfoy’s name. _P.S. I promise to stay away from the alcohol this time._ Was that a subtle reference to the kiss? Harry let the tiny scroll snap shut, desperate to understand. Did Malfoy remember? Or didn’t he? Normally, he’d have gone to Hermione with a problem like this. But after what she’d said about her feelings in regards to Malfoy, he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t go to Neville. In fact, Harry had been avoiding Neville since the Hogsmeade trip. Ron, of course, wasn’t even an option to be an option.

That left Harry with no one but himself.

Running his fingers through his hair and rumpling it nervously, Harry left out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His mind was filled with the feel of Malfoy’s lips warm against his, of the desire to experience that again, maybe even participate. But he kept going back to Malfoy wanting to forget about it completely. And had he forgotten? Or was he merely pretending he had to spare them both the humiliation of rejection?

Harry pushed himself off the ground, thinking that there was no way he was going to be able to continue on with the essays now. Deciding that he’d pick up his things and then go to find Malfoy about the note, Harry dropped into his chair. It wasn’t until he heard a papery crunch that he remembered that he’d tossed the scroll he’d dropped there.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“Potter.” Malfoy, dressed in soft green lounge pants and a gray V-neck top, stood outside of his door. His eyebrows were arched behind the rims of his glasses, making him look surprised to see Harry.

“Hey.” Now that he was there, the note crumpled up in his hand, Harry felt suddenly anxious. He mentally kicked himself for the nerves playing tag in his stomach. It was stupid to feel so anxious; the note had invited him for dinner, nothing more. But still, he felt like his skin was crawling in anticipation.

Malfoy stared him, confusion in his eyes. “Did you want something?”

“Oh…” Harry just managed to stop himself from saying _er_ at the last minute. “I,” he hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to tell the blond that he’d found the scroll. Malfoy, after all, had told him to forget about it, that it wasn’t important. How would he react to seeing it in Harry’s hand now? He could feel the tips of his ears turning red as he struggled for the right thing to say. 

Across from him, Malfoy smiled, but it wasn’t his normal sarcastic, snide expression. This was softer, kinder, and Harry wondered if Malfoy even knew that he was doing it. “Yes?” Malfoy’s tone was so soft and encouraging that Harry felt his courage return, just a little. 

Shoving the note into his back pocket, Harry said, “I’m starved.” His stomach, cooperating with him for once, chose that moment to rumble, which drew a snort from Malfoy. “Wanna get something to eat?”

Malfoy took a long time to consider the question and Harry knew that he was doing it for dramatic effect. Even so, Harry’s worry and impatience mounted, but surprisingly, his irritation did not. Somehow he _knew_ that Malfoy wasn’t trying to be aggravating, but funny instead. “I guess,” he sighed. And giving up the charade, Malfoy rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Who am _I_ to deny your stomach?”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from beaming at Malfoy. “Excellent.” 

“Well,” Malfoy stuck out his hand, his eyes boring into Harry’s, as if he were asking him something important. Whatever the question was, Harry wanted to say yes. 

So he did, the only way he knew how. 

Reaching out, Harry took hold of Malfoy’s hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around the blond’s. Under his grip, Malfoy responded by clutching tighter. As they walked through the barrier, Harry thought about holding hands with Malfoy. Unlike Ginny, his hand was not smaller than Harry’s and it didn’t feel delicate in his grasp. Instead, Malfoy’s hand was just about the same size as his, and their grips matched in strength, as if they were equal. 

Once inside, Malfoy didn’t let go right away and neither did Harry. They walked hand in hand towards the fireplace, where Harry was surprised to find that Malfoy already had dinner set…for two.

Worry and disappointment suddenly flooded Harry. Did Malfoy already have plans? Was he… Was he expecting a… _date_? “Umh…” Both of the armchairs had been moved near the fire and a small table was sitting between them. The table was covered with a soft-looking midnight-blue-and-silver speckled table cloth. And sitting on top of it was a large bowl of the pot roast they both loved so much, goblets of pumpkin juice, rolls, potatoes, butter and treacle tart. The only thing that could have made it any more perfect was a pot of hot coffee to accompany the dessert. “Were you expecting someone?” Whoever they were, Harry thought, they were very lucky. It looked (and smelled) _amazing_.

Malfoy squeezed, pulling Harry’s attention back to him, and to the fact that they were still holding hands, something Harry seemed to have forgotten. “Yes, actually.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to pull away, but Malfoy held tighter.

“No…” Malfoy’s closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Before opening them again, he muttered something under his breath that sounded like, ‘…not how this was supposed to go.’ When he finally looked at Harry again, his gaze was liquid silver and Harry felt its warmth spreading through him. “I was waiting for _you_.”

Confused, Harry looked from the table to him. “Huh?” No, it was not the most eloquent thing to say, but he’d had to say _something_. 

Even though he seemed reluctant to do it, Malfoy dropped his hand and walked over to the table. “I know things have been rough lately and that I’ve been too busy for our normal lunch and dinner engagements, so I thought it might be nice…” His voice trailed off and Harry was shocked to see the ghost of uncertainty cross Malfoy’s normally haughty features. 

Something deep within Harry stirred at the thought of Malfoy planning a nice dinner for them. Normally when they ate together they were stuck inside a classroom with barely enough room to lay their forks down. But this was…nice. It was more thoughtful than Harry thought Malfoy had the capacity to be. But even as that thought crossed his mind, Harry was struck by just _how much_ Malfoy had done for him. A nice meal, in comparison, seemed so small. 

Harry smiled at Malfoy, a smile that he could slowly see being reflected on the blond’s face. “It’s really nice, Malfoy.” 

“You can call me Draco, you know.” Malfoy’s eyes dropped to the table, suddenly very interested in the cutlery. 

Harry took a step forward and placed his palm on the table, enjoying the feel of the fabric under his fingertips. “Yeah?”

Malfoy looked up, “Of course.” Harry was glad to see that his confidence seemed to have returned. “It is my name, after all.”

“Oh really?” Harry poured on the sarcasm, enjoying the annoyed look on Malfoy’s face. “I had no idea.” 

“Git,” Malfoy snorted.

“Actually, no.” Harry tried to be as serious as possible as he stuck out his hand for Malfoy to shake. “It’s Harry.” He waggled his fingers, waiting expectantly. “I pity the poor bloke who _is_ named Git.”

Malfoy heaved a sigh that made his entire chest rise and fall and rolled his eyes dramatically. It was such a preposterous show that Harry had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. “Oh, all right…” He reached out and shook Harry’s hand. “I’m Draco. Which I’m sure we can both agree is…” Malfoy’s voice trailed off as he looked at Harry.

All traces off humor had gone from Harry’s face. Instead, he could feel the tips of his ears burning red and his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, his eyes heavily lidded. Malfoy’s hand was so warm in his, so strong. Harry knew that it would only take one encouraging tug and Malfoy would be in his arms willingly. It was a terrifying thought, but so full of wonder and excitement that Harry felt his stomach bubbling in anticipation.

Not wanting to rush, or miss out on a single moment, Harry flicked his tongue out and wet his lips. Malfoy’s molten eyes followed, his lashes dropping in response. Malfoy parted his lips ever so slightly and whispered, “ _Harry_ ” as if it were the holiest of prayers. 

Hearing his name come from Malfoy’s mouth caused a tingle to dance down Harry’s spine, tickling each of his vertebrae in turn. As the sensation sank into his tailbone he wondered in Malfoy would feel the same thing when he whispered, “ _Draco_ …”

Harry wasn’t sure if Malfoy had felt the cascading dance over his spine, but the darkening of his eyes said enough. Unable to stand it any longer, Harry tightened his grip on Malfoy’s hand. But before he could pull, before he could claim Malfoy as his own, Neville came striding through the door. “Evening, Malfoy. I brought the po…” 

Harry and Draco sprung apart at the intrusion; Harry shoved his hands in his pockets whereas Malfoy gripped the back of one of the armchairs, neither daring to look at the other. For a second they stood there in silence, Neville’s eyes darting between them comically. “Am I…” He took another tentative step into the room, a brown package in his arms. “Interrupting something here?” For the first time, his eyes landed on the dinner table Malfoy had prepared. 

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. Neville, contrary to what many seemed to believe, was not thick. How could he _not_ realize that _something_ was going on? Harry’s eyes darted around the room searching for some sort of reasonable explanation. 

Thankfully, Malfoy recovered before him.

“No, of course you aren’t, Longbottom.” Malfoy let go of the chair with so much force that Harry noticed it rocking a little. “We were just preparing for dinner. It’s become somewhat of a tradition.”

The look of confusion on Neville’s face turned into a soft, approving smile and Harry was instantly reminded of the fact that Neville had orchestrated so much of his return to Hogwarts. It irritated him all over again, seeing him standing there, looking so pleased. Harry wanted to tell him off, but he kept his mouth shut. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Neville nodded at both of them in turn before handing the package over to Malfoy. 

Malfoy quickly took it from him and placed it on a small table that hadn’t been transfigured for their dinner. “I take it this is the most recent harvest?” Hands clasped behind his back, Harry watched as his fingers twisted and untwisted impatiently. 

“Yes, I just finished cleaning out the pods, actually.” Neville smiled proudly, and if Harry hadn’t been so irritated he’d have been proud of his friend. “You won’t get your hands on any fresher.”

Harry couldn’t see it, but he imagined the polite smile that must have been on Malfoy’s face. “You are an excellent herbologist, Longbottom. I wouldn’t think of trusting anyone else.”

Neville beamed and caught Harry’s eyes over Malfoy’s shoulder. Harry wasn’t positive, but he thought that Neville winked at him. “Thank you.” He bowed his head ever so slightly. “Well…best be off. Wouldn’t want to ruin your dinner plans.”

Harry could see Malfoy’s shoulders relaxing as his fingers stilled. “Not to worry, it will keep.” There was a sharp undercurrent in Malfoy’s voice that shouted ‘ _leave now_ ,’ and Harry wondered if Neville had picked up on it. 

“Just the same.” Whether Neville had gotten the hint, Harry didn’t know or care. All that mattered was that he’d said his goodbyes and was heading out the door.

Once he was gone, Malfoy turned to him and they both burst out laughing. It wasn’t that the situation was funny; it was just a release of all the nerves and anxiety that had built up in the past five minutes. As they took their seats, still chuckling, something occurred to Harry. “Wait…Neville knows your password?”

Malfoy scooted his chair in and pulled his napkin from the table. “Yes.” He spread it with a flourish before pulling it over his lap. “In case of emergencies.” Malfoy’s voice was matter of fact, which surprised Harry given what type of _emergency_ could occur. He almost felt like he should apologize for being nosy. “Potatoes, Harry?” But he didn’t.

“Yes, please.” Harry took the dish that Malfoy offered him. It was filled to the brim with creamy mashed potatoes that smelled faintly of garlic. He heaved a large helping of them onto his plate, not caring about the garlic breath he might end up with later. 

The moment from earlier was gone, but in its place Harry found a sense of comfort and security that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next few weeks were spent in a haze of nervous joy and fear. Harry and Malfoy had resumed their daily lunches in Harry’s classroom, but dinner had become more intimate. Instead of trying to get comfortable in the potion’s dungeon, eating next to the fire in Malfoy’s room had become routine. They’d eat leisurely and discuss their day. Occasionally Neville would show up, but he always made sure to announce himself first.

Much to Harry’s chagrin, they hadn’t found themselves in the same position as they had the other night. But instead of the intensity of that single touch, Harry was rewarded with a deluge of smaller, gentler ones. Their hands would brush as they passed a dish of this or that. Under the table their knees would knock together. Neither acknowledged these moments, but each seemed to linger a little, mean a little more than the last.

Surprisingly, Harry didn’t feel the urge to reach out and grab Malfoy. Instead, he was happy to let nature take its course. Being with Malfoy felt like the most exhilarating of Quidditch games, and at the end was the snitch. For now though, he was happy to just fly along and see where the wind took him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry went to bed one night and woke up in the morning to find winter firmly settled upon the castle. His toes, hanging out of the end of his comforter, were frozen, and there was a nasty draft coming from under his door. Stuck between sleep and wakefulness, Harry lazily thought about grabbing his wand and casting a warming spell on his room. However, the part of him that was still asleep won out and he pulled his legs up under the blanket instead. Wrapping his feet in the thick comforter, Harry’s dreamy thoughts teased him with what it might be like to have Malfoy there, curled up with him for extra warmth.

The thought of having another body under the covers snuggled up with his in sleep made Harry sigh deeply. To have someone to wrap his arms around, or to be wrapped up in someone’s embrace, seemed like the most heavenly thing imaginable. He drifted back to sleep imagining the feel of Malfoy’s sleek blond hair tickling his cheek and the beat of Malfoy’s heart next to his own. 

When he woke again a few hours later, Harry could barely remember what he’d dreamed about. All he knew was that waking up alone filled him with a sense of loneliness that he hadn’t gone to bed with.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry made his way to the Great Hall that morning, marveling at how the castle had transformed overnight. Great garlands as thick as his leg and covered in glistening red berries had been strung through the school. They swooped over the paintings and doorways, filling the halls with the crisp scent of pine.

It wasn’t until Harry walked into the Hall and saw the twelve huge trees lining the walls that he realized Christmas was upon him. In barely two weeks it would be a year, a full year since Jude had died. He stood there, mouth open in horror, wondering how he’d forgotten. How, in the name of Merlin, had he forgotten that that date was coming up? It seemed so impossible that that, of all things, had managed to slip his mind.

From his place in the doorway, Harry could see Malfoy sitting in his normal seat at the Slytherin table and Harry’s usual mug sitting there waiting for him. But he couldn’t take another step into the Great Hall, couldn’t bear to be around the Christmas trees, even though they weren’t even decorated yet. 

His chest heaved as he gasped for breath; he needed to get out of there. 

_Fast._

Harry turned around and ran smack into Meeks, who spilled his books on the floor. “I… Sorry… I…” He dropped down and tried to help the boy pick them up. But the harder he tried to pull them together, the worse the mess seemed. 

“Umh…” Meeks took the potions book that Harry was trying to hand him. There was worry on his face and Harry felt ashamed of himself. This was _not_ how he wanted his students to see him. “Is everything alright, Professor?”

“Fine,” Harry said with a little too much force. It sounded like a lie, even to himself. “Just fine.”

“Oh…” The Slytherin continued grabbing his things, and even though Harry wasn’t looking up, he could feel the boy’s eyes on him. “Ok.”

With everything _finally_ picked up, Harry stood and all but ran back to his room. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Meeks. As he flew down the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor, Harry thought to himself, ‘ _Some professor I am_.’

The second he was safely tucked inside his room, Harry grabbed a pinch of floo powder out of a small pot on the mantle and tossed it in. He stood and waited for the flame to turn green before he realized that it wasn’t lit. Cursing himself and the empty fireplace, Harry pointed his wand at the grate where a large fire burst forth. Its heat immediately warmed the room, but still managed to leave Harry feeling cold. 

Once again, he grabbed a pinch of powder and tossed it in. The flames glowed green instantly and he said his destination before he stepped inside.

A few seconds later, he stumbled into Ron and Hermione’s kitchen, his nose and mouth full of ash. He coughed and spluttered, great plumes of dirt wafting off of him as he did. As he wiped soot from his eyes he heard Hermione shriek, “Harry! What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

He forced his eyes open, even though they were streaming, and found Hermione staring at him, looking horrified. Harry tried to speak, but all he managed was another round of coughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d inhaled so much soot when using the floo. 

“Sit…” She led him to the kitchen table and forced him into a seat. As he wheezed and struggled for breath Harry felt her wipe a cool, wet towel over his face. Focusing on her ministrations his breathing began to return to normal. “Calm down.”

“I’m,” he coughed feebly once again. “Trying.” 

“Shhh, don’t talk.” Once again Hermione swept the towel over his face, gently pulling off his glasses to get around his eyes and nose. It was wonderfully cold against his skin and he was thankful for it. “Just breathe.”

For the next couple of minutes he did just that, focusing on taking a deep breath in before exhaling it. Hermione continued to clean off his face with the damp towel, and she used her wand to clean his glasses so well they sparkled. She perched the spectacles back on his nose, hooking them carefully around his ears.

When she finally set the towel down and looked at him, all he could say was, “It’s almost Christmas.”

Her expression fell, the understanding and sadness written in every line of her face. In that moment she looked older than Harry had ever seen her. “I know, Harry.”

Harry looked up at her, desperate for some of the wisdom she always seemed to possess. “What do I do?” His voice was so soft he’d barely heard himself speak.

Hermione pressed her lips together and Harry could see the tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes. He watched desperately as she swallowed before speaking. “You go on living, Harry. It’s all you can do.” She blinked rapidly and Harry knew that she was trying to keep her tears from spilling over.

“How?” He gasped as she pushed his messy fringe away from his face.

She seemed to consider for a moment before she said, “Come for Christmas, Harry.” It was an odd response, but the look on her face was so serious, so determined, that Harry didn’t argue with her. 

Harry couldn’t speak, so he just nodded his head. 

Hermione smiled through her tears. “It’ll be good for you. I promise. Now…” She brushed his messy hair out of his eyes in a motherly way. Taking a steadying breath, she looked towards the clock and her eyes widened a little. “You are in no state to teach cla-”

“Classes!” That shocked Harry out of his silence. He’d completely forgotten about his students. Had the first period already started? Were the students sitting there, without a teacher, wondering what to do? Were they tearing up his classroom? “I have to go!” He started to rise from the kitchen chair. 

“You will do no such thing, Harry Potter.” Hermione leveled a look at him that would have made Mrs. Weasley proud and he sat back down.

“I have the day off. And while I’d originally planned to use the time to start planning the wedding,” Hermione blushed ever so slightly at the mention of her upcoming nuptials. “That can wait.” She pulled her bushy brown hair back into a ponytail as she walked towards the kitchen counter. She seemed much surer, now that she had something that needed to be done. “I will take your classes today. I’m sure I can follow your lesson plans.” Hermione looked at him expectantly. 

“I…” It was Harry’s turn to turn red. 

The look on Hermione’s face said it all. She knew that he didn’t have any plans prepared and she wasn’t pleased. Thankfully though, she decided not to lecture him at that moment. “Alright. I guess I can easily come up with a lecture that should suffice.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement and Harry couldn’t help but feel like maybe she’d missed her calling as a teacher. 

Harry wanted to say, ‘that’s what I normally do,’ but he was afraid of how she’d react if she knew that. As it was, he felt like he was just a step above Quirrel and Umbridge, as far as Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers went. 

“Now,” she was rooting around in a drawer, looking for something. “You are free to stay here for the day. There are leftovers in the refrigerator that you can heat up for lunch.”

Sheepishly, Harry muttered, “Ok.”

Hermione pulled an eagle-feather quill out of the drawer and quickly scrawled a note on a spare bit of parchment. When she was done she tapped it with her wand. The note shuddered slightly, and she said “Ron Weasley” to it. It then disappeared with a tiny _pop_.

Curious, Harry said, “What was that?”

“A note to Ron, so he knows what’s going on.” She put the quill back in the drawer.

“No…” He’d figured it was a note to Ron, considering that she’d addressed it as such. “The spell. What was it?”

“Oh!” Her face brightened. “A new spell, sort of like an interoffice memo, except that it can go anywhere. It’s like a Patronus message, for those who aren’t able to produce a Patronus. I’m still working on perfecting it, but so far so good. Handy, isn’t it?” 

Harry took a moment to wonder what the difference between Hermione inventing new spells and Malfoy inventing new potions was, but in the end he decided not to bring up. She was, after all, doing him a huge favor. “Yeah, very. You’ll have to teach it to me.”

“I will,” Hermione promised before her face turned serious. “I want you to listen to me, Harry.” Harry opened his mouth to protest but she silenced him with a look. “I will cover for you this once, but never again.” She seemed to consider what she’d just said before adding, “Unless you properly ask me to come and speak, that is.”

“I…” She watched him and Harry felt the full weight of what she was doing sink in. “I know.”

“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Hermione checked the clock that was hanging on the wall. Shrieking a little, she hurriedly pressed a kiss to his forehead before grabbing her purse and heading towards the floo. She grabbed a pinch of powder, but before she threw it in she looked back at Harry. “You will be alright by yourself, won’t you?”

Just as soon as he’d said yes, Hermione disappeared into the flickering emerald flame, leaving Harry alone and wondering if that was the truth.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry spent the day curled up on Hermione and Ron’s couch. It wasn’t particularly soft or comfortable, but it felt homey nonetheless. He alternated between watching telly, sleeping, and eating leftover fried chicken, still cold, out of the refrigerator.

As he lay there, he tried to think of anything but Jude. He tried thinking of his students, of Malfoy, of the homework he still needed to grade. But in the end...it was useless. His mind kept coming back around to Jude. 

When the sun that had lit the room so cheerily all afternoon began to dim, Harry took the floo back to his room at Hogwarts. But before leaving, he scribbled a note to Hermione and left it on the kitchen counter. The quill trembled in his hand as he scrawled, “I need your help with something…”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The second Harry stepped out of his fireplace (with much less coughing and wheezing this time); he heard Hermione’s voice calling out. It took him a moment to realize that she was not actually in his room, but on the outside and trying to get back in.

Harry pulled her inside and quickly explained about how it worked. “How long have you been out there?” He took what looked like a load of essays from her arms.

“Not long, thankfully.” She pushed a lock of hair that had escaped her pony tail back behind her ear. “I realized that your door was not going to let me through about an hour ago. I’ve been sitting at your desk since.”

“How did you know I was back?” He looked at her, wondering if she’d placed some sort of tracking spell on him.

“Oh, Ron must have arrived just as you were leaving. He sent a memo.” Hermione straightened the hem of her top. “I used the time to grade your essays. I must say, Harry, you shouldn’t let them pile up! Marks are very important.”

Harry smiled and pulled her into a hug. It was so wonderful to see Hermione just being… Hermione. Also? The fact that she’d dug him out of his essay-grading hole wasn’t so bad either. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“You’re…” Her voice sounded shaky, like her emotions had gotten the best of her. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

When Harry finally released her, he wasn’t surprised to see that her eyes were shimmering with tears. He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, just so you know…you’re out of fried chicken now.”

She laughed, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Thanks for telling me.” She did a quick survey of herself, making sure she had everything she’d come with. “It’s time for me to get home.” Hermione stood in front of the fireplace and grabbed a pinch of floo powder. But before she threw it into the fire, she looked back at Harry, her face none too pleased. “I almost forgot. _Malfoy_ is looking for you.”

Shocked, Harry watched her disappear into the emerald flames. Not once had he thought of the possibility of Hermione and Malfoy crossing paths. Now that he had, though, he was terrified of what might have happened between them. Whatever it was, though…it couldn’t have been good.

Preparing himself for the worst, Harry left his room in search of Malfoy.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

It didn’t take long to find the blond, and Harry secretly wished that it had taken longer. In the time he’d been searching for Malfoy, Harry’s mind had created worse and more elaborate scenarios for what had happened between the two of them. He could barely imagine the damage those two could do together if left alone too long.

He’d just passed the entrance to the Great Hall when he found Malfoy discussing something with one of the seventh year Ravenclaws. Harry couldn’t tell what it was, but if the look of interest on Malfoy’s face was anything to go by, it was something to do with potions. Perhaps she was a member of Malfoy’s new Potions club?

Harry slowed his approach, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. But when Malfoy caught sight of Harry over the girl’s shoulder, he smiled ever so slightly before excusing himself. If Malfoy was smiling, then perhaps things hadn’t gone as badly between him and Hermione as Harry thought. Or…that’s what Harry was hoping, anyway.

The Ravenclaw headed into the Hall for supper and Malfoy walked towards Harry. He didn’t stop when he met him though; instead, he kept walking. Where to, Harry wasn’t sure, but he fell into step beside the blond anyway. 

When they were well away from the entrance hall and any students, Malfoy broke the silence. “Granger told me you weren’t feeling well and I must say you look dreadful.”

Harry rumpled his hair self-consciously. Did he really look that bad?

“What happened, Harry?” Malfoy pulled Harry to a stop in the middle of a deserted corridor. Pine garlands were draped over the walls and the suits of armor all wore Santa hats. They hadn’t started their caroling yet, for which Harry was grateful. He didn’t think he could have handled that yet. 

It was only when Harry was about to answer the question that he realized Malfoy had called him by his first name. He wanted to comment on it, but didn’t. He was sure to get some sort of flippant reply from Malfoy if he did, or Malfoy might stop using it altogether. “I just…”

Malfoy watched him, his face a bizarre mixture of patience and impatience. Harry wondered how it was possible for one person to be both at the same time. But even though the impatience seemed to be winning out, Malfoy didn’t push.

“I hadn’t realized Christmas was so close.” It was a pitiful excuse, one that Malfoy probably wouldn’t understand.

“And you’re terrified of garland…” It came out sounding sarcastic, but somehow, Harry knew that that wasn’t Malfoy’s intent.

Taking a deep breath, Harry said, “Jude died a few days after Christmas. The one-year anniversary is coming up.” He looked away from Malfoy, not knowing if he’d like what he saw on the blond’s face. “Seeing the Great Hall this morning was a bit…”

“Too much.” It was clear from Malfoy’s tone that he understood perfectly. 

“Yeah.” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets; his eyes searched the stones beneath his feet for nothing in particular.

“Right, how about we find someplace less festive, then?” Malfoy took hold of Harry’s elbow and led him back towards the Defense Against the Darks Arts corridor.

“Sounds good to me.” Harry went along with him, grateful that he didn’t have to think about where he was going.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Once they were tucked safely away in Harry’s sitting room, he slumped into one of the squashy armchairs. Malfoy set about lighting the fire, muttering to himself about freezing quarters in winter. It took only a moment for the fireplace to spring to life with crackling flames that hissed and popped.

Harry basked in the heat, only just now realizing just how cold he was. The flames danced merrily and he moved to the chair that was closer to them. And to Malfoy. 

Malfoy used his wand to expertly arrange the logs in the hearth, making sure to get a nice balance between heat and flame. Harry watched him curiously, surprised that Malfoy knew how to arrange a fireplace. After all, didn’t the Malfoy’s have house-elves who normally handled such menial tasks? “I can feel you staring at me, you know.”

“Oh.” Harry jumped a little, surprised by Malfoy’s admission. “I thought that maybe you could read my mind.” It came out as a joke, but Harry was completely serious.

In response, Malfoy just looked at him and smiled deviously. 

Harry could do nothing but gulp. 

The look on Malfoy’s face turned to one of interest. “Are you hungry?”

“Well…” Harry rubbed his stomach. “I ate half a chicken at Hermione’s.” His stomach rumbled, which caused Malfoy to arch an amused eyebrow. “But I could eat.”

“Of course you could.” Malfoy shook his head as he swished and flicked his wand, causing the tiny table next to the chair to enlarge itself. Afterwards he transfigured the legs of the other armchair so that it was able to walk itself closer to the table. A small pinch of floo powder and Malfoy stuck his head into the hearth, presumably to communicate with the house-elves in the kitchen, because a few minutes later plates, cutlery and goblets appeared on the table. Not long after that dishes of steaming food followed.

Harry eyed them curiously, not exactly sure about what he was seeing. “What…is _that_ ” He pointed at a bowl filled with some noodles that appeared to be topped with mushrooms.

“Ah.” Malfoy smirked as he sat down and pulled a napkin onto his lap. “As I told you, I spent quite a bit of time traveling as I studied. Part of that time was spent in America; Chicago, specifically. Fascinating city. Full of art, architecture and…” He grabbed a slice of cheese-topped garlic bread and set it on his plate. “Food.”

“I dined at the most fabulous of restaurants, a few dives, and a few chain restaurants. This,” he picked up the dish of pasta, “was a favorite of mine. It’s _comfort food_ ,” he said, sounding amused. Using the ladle, Malfoy served himself and then Harry. “I would frequent this particular chain after long, fruitless days of experimentation.”

Looking at the heap of pasta on his plate, Harry shoved a piece of garlic bread into his mouth. “Wha’ is it?” It didn’t look bad, but it also sort of looked like…

“Essentially, it’s macaroni and cheese.” Malfoy sounded slightly disgusted by the thought of it. “However, it’s is _much_ more decadent than that.” Considering the dish before him, Malfoy picked and chose what to spear with his fork before holding it up for Harry’s inspection. Harry watched in wonderment as Malfoy considered what was on his fork. Harry thought that he looked like a potioneer inspecting a vial of something he’d just brewed. And in that moment, Harry understood Malfoy’s love of food. It wasn’t about taste, or comfort, it was about the art of chopping and measuring, brewing a blending. Cooking and food, it seemed, were just another form of potions to Malfoy.

“The cheese sauce is flavored with truffle oil and then it is topped with sautéed baby portabella mushrooms and bread crumbs. It makes for quite a satisfying meal and eating it always made me feel better about my failures. I guess that’s why it’s called comfort food.” He stuck the fork full of noodles and mushrooms into his mouth and sighed. 

Harry could hardly imagine Malfoy alone in some Chicago restaurant eating macaroni and cheese in an effort to drown his sorrows. But then again, he could hardly believe that Malfoy had been addicted to potions, or that they had forged some sort of relationship. It all seemed so surreal, but he wasn’t in the mood to question it. Instead, he stared at his plate.

He’d had macaroni and cheese before, but truffles? Portabella mushrooms? Those he wasn’t so sure about. But, to be honest, it looked good and he _was_ hungry. So Harry begrudgingly set what was left of his garlic bread down and picked up his fork. 

At first, it just tasted like something the Dursley’s had served when he was little, but after chewing, a rich, heady flavor began to stand out. He couldn’t quite place it, or describe it, but he knew that it had to be the truffles. As he chewed he was caught up by the juiciness of the sautéed portabellas and the slight crunch from the bread crumbs. When he swallowed, he caught Malfoy watching him, a pleased smile on his face. Harry didn’t even bother to swallow before saying, “Is’ good.” One taste and he understood why Malfoy had turned to it on rough days.

“Obviously.” Malfoy’s smile widened slightly as he took another bite. 

Malfoy still looked pleased, but there was something else in his expression now. “Did you get everything figured out…today?” 

Harry swallowed, thinking about his afternoon. Had he gotten over the anniversary of Jude’s death while lying on Ron and Hermione’s couch and eating cold chicken? No. 

But things did seem a little better, now that he was back at Hogwarts. “Um…not really.” He took a swig of pumpkin juice in a pathetic bid for time. “But I think that going to the Weasley’s for Christmas will help.” After Hermione had asked him to come again, he’d decided that maybe it would help him, to see friends and family instead of wallowing on his own. 

“So you’re going then? For the holidays?” Malfoy’s face was a careful mask of indifference, but Harry could hear something buried deep in his voice. Did Malfoy expect him to stay? Did he _want_ him to stay? More importantly, wasn’t Malfoy himself going home for Christmas?

“Uh…” Harry studied the blond sitting across from him, trying to figure out what Malfoy wanted. “Yeah.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good for you.” Malfoy didn’t make eye contact with Harry. Instead, he stared at the macaroni and cheese on his plate as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

Harry didn’t know why, but it bothered him to see Malfoy looking so despondent, especially when he’d been the cause of it. He wracked his brain trying to think of a change of topic. All he could come up with was, “What did you and Hermione talk about?”

Finally Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes colder than Harry had seen them in a long time. “It’s not important.”

Harry didn’t press the matter.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

A thick blanket of snow had covered the castle overnight, bringing with it a chill that Harry never seemed to be able to escape. He’d tried heating charms, and extras layers, but nothing seemed to work. And everywhere he went signs of Christmas seemed to be appearing. The suits of armor were caroling, students were giggling about mistletoe, and the trees in the Great Hall had been bedecked in large, sparkling baubles, tinsel, and fairy lights. The steady fall of snow from the ceiling in the Great Hall made Harry feel as if he were entering a winter wonderland.

It had been difficult, stepping into the Hall, but if Harry had learned anything since returning to Hogwarts, it was that hiding from his problems didn’t solve them. Seeing the trees and merry decorations still reminded him of Jude and the anniversary that was looming, but he refused to let them send him running again. Hermione was right, he needed to live. So that was what he intended to do. Or, at the very least, _try_ to do. She had, after all, never said it would be easy.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next Friday night, Harry found himself packing a small bag with clothes, toiletries, and a few gifts he’d picked up in Hogsmeade. It seemed strange to him now, as he packed, just how comfortable he’d gotten in his tiny rooms. At first they’d felt cold, uninviting, but now Harry could see traces of himself everywhere he looked. He’d placed a few pictures of his parents and friends on the mantle, and he had a dirty shirt lying over the arm of one of the chairs. Unlike his flat in London, it looked and felt like _home_.

Harry had just about finished gathering his things when he heard Malfoy calling his name. At first, it seemed like the blond’s voice was coming from all around him, as if it had been magically magnified. He even did a quick, albeit comedic, spin around himself to try and find Malfoy, despite the fact that he wasn’t there. 

When Malfoy’s voice rang out again, Harry stopped and held his wand at the ready. “I am at the door, Harry.” He sounded slightly annoyed, and just a touch amused.

That, Harry thought to himself, made much more sense than Malfoy’s voice surrounding him like some omnipotent force. As he rushed to the door, he thought it odd that he was only just now discovering how this worked. But then again, not many people visited him. And normally when they did, Harry had run into them outside and invited them in. 

When Harry reached his door, he gasped in surprise. He’d expected to see the normal brick wall that was always there. But instead, the stones had faded, revealing Malfoy on the other side, looking impatient. Harry approached the wall, wondering if Malfoy was able to see in, since Harry could see out. But when Malfoy didn’t acknowledge him, Harry realized that the door worked much like a muggle two-way mirror.

It was odd, observing Malfoy from inside of his room. The wall had faded, but it hadn’t completely vanished, so it was like looking at Malfoy with a pattern of stones painted on top of him. Harry watched in fascination as Malfoy pushed a few stray locks of blond hair behind his ear before clasping his hands behind his back. Harry wondered if his hands were twisting together in agitation, or if they were still. 

On the other side of the barrier, Malfoy huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Stop staring at me and invite me in, Potter.”

Harry jumped in surprise. Of course Malfoy would know how the doors worked. Of course he would know that it didn’t take _that_ long to get from the bedroom to the door. Harry knew he’d been caught and his ears burned in embarrassment. Sticking his arm through the barrier, Harry watched as his hand and sleeve took on the same stone-y texture as Malfoy. He’d have liked to have examined it a bit, but Malfoy was being impatient, so instead, he grabbed ahold of Malfoy’s sleeve and pulled him through.

“It’s about time”, Malfoy said, straightening the hem of his dark grey sweater. “I was standing out there for ages. I could have caught my death.”

For the very first time, Harry gave Malfoy one of his own raised-eyebrow responses.

Malfoy’s eyes widened in shock, but he recovered quickly. “Well, I could have,” he defended.

“Uh-huh…sure.” Harry tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help it. Malfoy could be so ridiculous and pompous at times, but Harry had come to find him more amusing than irritating. 

The blond didn’t try to protest, but he lifted his pointed chin defiantly. 

Harry had the sudden urge to reach out and pull Malfoy close, but he didn’t. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for Malfoy to speak.

For a few moments they stood there in awkward silence, Malfoy’s chin lowering ever so slowly. Once he was back to eye level with Harry, he said, “I take it you’re leaving for the holidays in the morning.”

So _that_ was why Malfoy had dropped by. “Tonight, actually.” Harry looked at the watch Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given him for his seventeenth birthday. It was a little battered and worn by the years, but it still kept perfect time. “In about fifteen minutes.”

Malfoy seemed shocked by the news, but kept his composure. “Ah.”

“Um…” Harry didn’t know how to respond, what to say. He wracked his brain, but nothing seemed right. “Yeah.” How had he forgotten to tell Malfoy when he was leaving? He knew that they’d both been extremely busy with exams lately, but that wasn’t an excuse. He should have told Malfoy.

“Well then,” Malfoy said. The tension and awkwardness thickened between them. It seemed like Malfoy was just as tongue-tied as Harry. “I just wanted to stop by and wish you a Happy Christmas.” Somehow, Harry knew that that _wasn’t_ the real reason he had come by. 

“Oh,” Harry said, a wave of disappointment flooding through him. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, or hoping for, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Um, Happy Christmas, then.”

Malfoy tried to smile, but failed miserably. “I guess I’ll leave you to it. Wouldn’t want you to be late.” There was no sarcasm, no bite, just disappointment. 

“I…um…” Harry was desperate to keep Malfoy there, standing in front of him. He didn’t want to say goodbye, not yet. Sure, he would only be gone for about two weeks, but it seemed like it would be ages before they saw each other again. “I have something for you. I’d planned to have the house-elves deliver it Christmas morning, but…”

Malfoy’s pale brows rose, his eyes lighting up even though he was trying to be nonchalant. “Oh?”

“Uh,” Harry felt suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Just…” He held up a hand, motioning for Malfoy to stay put. He didn’t have that much time before he was supposed to leave, but as far as Harry was concerned the Weasleys could deal with him being a few minutes late. Dashing into his bedroom, he grabbed the bag of things he’d been packing and Malfoy’s gift off of his bedside table. 

Back in the sitting room, he plopped his duffel on the spindly table between the two armchairs and handed Malfoy his gift. The box was small, wrapped in glittering green paper and topped with a silver bow. Harry knew that it looked _very_ Slytherin, but the colors were festive and they made Harry think of Malfoy. “Happy Christmas, Draco.” It was the first time he’d used Malfoy’s given name and it felt like honey as it rolled off his tongue. 

Much to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy gave the box a small shake, listening as the contents rattled. Harry watched in amazement as Malfoy’s face split into a curious grin. If someone had asked him what type of gift opener Draco Malfoy was, Harry would have pulled a face and said that he probably unstuck each piece of spello-tape at a time, making sure to never rip the paper. But in reality, Malfoy seemed to approach the gift with joy and excitement, first sliding off the bow, which he slipped over his arm and tearing off the wrapping in one tug. It was a glorious sight, watching him rip into the gift, but as the box within was revealed, Harry felt his nerves grow. “It’s not much. Just something I saw in Honeydukes…”

When Malfoy looked at the box, his face split into a large smile. “It’s brilliant.” 

“I know it’s meant for kids, but it made me think of you…” The tips of Harry’s ears burned in embarrassment. He hadn’t actually planned to get Malfoy anything for Christmas, but after spending the afternoon with Ron and Hermione in Hogsmeade, Harry had decided to stop by Honeydukes before heading back to the castle. It had been _ages_ since he’d had a chocolate frog and he’d wanted to get a few, for old times’ sake. 

Walking through the store had felt like he was wading through a very short forest as the younger kids chattered noisily and stocked up on their favorite sweets. Harry had laughed, remembering his first trip to the candy shop and how he wanted to try absolutely everything - except the cockroach clusters and blood-flavored lollipops, of course. 

Excusing himself many times, Harry finally managed to get his hands on three chocolate frogs and headed towards the register. It was as he was checking out that he saw it. A small box with a colorful front read “Professor Sweetbottom’s Make-Your-Own Candy Potions!” The kit contained small chocolate cauldrons and all of the necessary ingredients for candy potions. There were fruit flavored, fizzing powders, green apple flavored troll bogies, eye of newt sprinkles and other ingredients. The kit even came with a small “potions” book to help the brewer mix their flavors. It was a no-wand-necessary candy kit that promised delicious results. 

It was silly and fun and it reminded Harry of Draco so much that he’d bought it instantly, even having the sales girl wrap it for him. 

“I know it’s not-” Harry started, but Malfoy cut him off.

“It’s perfect, really,” Malfoy assured him. 

Harry looked at him, hoping that Malfoy really did like the gift. “Yeah?”

Malfoy nodded, the cellophane wrapped box clutched tightly in his hands. “Yes, Harry. I really do love it.” There was so much sincerity in his voice that Harry felt his insides turn to molten lava. For a moment they stared at each other, their eyes locked in a question that neither seemed willing, or able, to answer. 

Harry felt time tick by slowly as Malfoy watched him, his white eyelashes falling against his cheeks each time he blinked. If he’d had the time, Harry felt as if he could have watched those feathery lashes for hours. But time was not on his side. “I have to go,” Harry whispered, breaking the spell that had been holding them together. He wished, for the first time, that he could spend his holidays with Malfoy, enjoying the break from classes, the snow, the feasts and Christmas. But something deep within him told Harry that he _needed_ to spend this holiday at the Burrow.

Malfoy swallowed deeply and nodded, “I know.” His tongue flickered out and he wet his lips before saying, “Best be off. I’ll make sure your fire is out after you leave.”

Grabbing his bag, Harry muttered “Thanks.” Harry wanted to say something, do _something_ , but he couldn’t think of a single thing that wouldn’t seem lame. It was just… Harry didn’t even know. He wanted to _touch_ Draco, to make some sort of physical contact. But Malfoy had wanted to forget…

And it very much seemed like he had.

But there had been moments, beautiful moments, where they’d touched and lingered, smiled and laughed, which made Harry feel otherwise. Made Harry feel like _maybe_ there was something there, after all.

Grabbing a pinch of floo powder, Harry looked at Draco, who was now standing next to him. Unable to stop himself from giving in, Harry brushed a silky blond strand behind Malfoy’s ear, his fingers grazing Malfoy’s cheek as he did. It wasn’t anywhere near what he wanted, but the slight contact warmed something within him. “Happy Christmas, Draco.”

Before Harry could drop his hand, Malfoy reached up and grabbed it, squeezing gently. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”

Without another word, Harry threw the glittering green dust into the fireplace and said, “The Burrow!”

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry stepped out of the fireplace into a sea of festive chaos. Bill and Charlie rushed past him, their arms full of a large pine tree. Fred and Ginny headed outside carrying large boxes. Hermione was waving her wand, making beautiful red and green garlands appear on the tops of cabinets and paintings. Various other red-headed Weasleys pushed past him, and Harry thought that he’d seen the golden blonde of Fleur and Victoire in there as well. However, it was Mrs. Weasley who finally noticed that he’d just stepped out of the grate.

“Harry, dear!” Molly threw her arms open wide and rushed towards him. “Welcome home.” She embraced him, pinning his arms to his sides. Harry relaxed in her arms; he really was home, even if he didn’t live there. After she released him, she reached up and took his face in her hands. “You’re looking so much better.”

“Thanks, Molly.” He smiled down at her. Did he really look so different? Even though Harry looked in the mirror every morning and night, he hadn’t really noticed a change in his appearance. But then again, he never really _looked_ at himself, either. 

She pulled away and put her hands on her plump hips. Greetings were over and it was time to get down to business. “You can put your things in Ron’s old room. You two will be sharing, just like old times.”

Harry smiled. He’d had a lot of great times, bunking with Ron, but it amused him that Molly had split him and Hermione up, even though they were engaged. “Alright.” 

“After you get settled you can help with the tree.” She smiled at him warmly again. “It really is good to have you here, Harry. We were worried you wouldn’t make it.”

Whether she meant for Christmas, or in general, Harry didn’t know, and he really didn’t care to find out. So he said, “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, Molly.” As he said it, Harry realized just how much he meant it. There was no way he could have missed this.

Molly gave him a swift kiss on the cheek before excusing herself on the pretense of needing to find out where Arthur was. Harry watched her go and then headed up the stairs to Ron’s old room. As he went, a chorus of “Hi, Harry!” and “Welcome, Harry!” followed him. No one stopped to chat, too busy with their chores, but Harry was fine with that. He would have plenty of time to catch up with everyone later.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

When Harry walked into Ron’s old room he burst out laughing. It looked _exactly_ as it had the last time he’d been in it. The walls were covered in orange and red Chudley Cannons posters that were slightly faded but still filled with action. The cot Harry had slept in so many nights was set up and had a stack of faded linens on top of it, and Ron’s bed was outfitted in a worse for wear Cannons bed set. Harry felt like he’d stepped back in time, but it was wonderful.

Dropping his bag to the floor, Harry made quick work of charming the sheets and blankets Molly had left into something resembling a bed. It was messy - Harry had never been great at domestic spells - but it would be just fine. It’s not like he would care about uneven sheets when he was asleep. In fact, it wasn’t like the cared about them when he was awake, either.

Harry left the room and bounded down the stairs and into the chaos of a Weasley family Christmas. It didn’t take long for Ron and Hermione to ditch their tasks and seek him out.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The last few days before Christmas were spent in a haze of baking, decorating, caroling and general good humor. Harry had been accepted into the Weasley household, just as he always had, with open arms. Surprisingly, no one looked at with pity, or treated him any differently, even though they all knew what was coming.

On Christmas Eve, Harry found himself alone for the first time in days. He’d excused himself from the group and headed into the kitchen. It was wonderful being with the Weasley’s, but at times he found himself overwhelmed. It was a first for him, feeling suffocated in the Burrow, and he knew that it had to do with Jude. Harry had gotten better about getting out of his room, traveling the Hogwarts grounds and venturing into Hogsmeade, but he found that too many people for too long still bothered him a bit.

And while seeing all of them helped to take his mind off Jude and his death, seeing all of the happy couples made him realize how much he wanted someone of his own. As he’d watched George and Angelina share a passionate kiss under the mistletoe, he’d wondered, had Jude lived, if that would have been him this year. Which, in turn, made him wonder about _himself_. 

What felt like a lifetime ago, Hermione had made it seem so easy when she’d told him to consider what Jude had really meant to him and what that meant for his future. But even though he’d taken her advice, it had seemed like such a struggle. His mind would tell him he was straight, that he’d loved Ginny, but his heart… Harry’s heart wanted something else. 

It wanted a man.

It wanted Draco.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and stared out the window into the snowy night and thought. He thought so much he was sure his brain would explode. And it just may have, if the door behind him hadn’t opened, pulling him from his contemplations. 

Harry didn’t need to turn around to see who had joined him. In the frosty windowpane he could see Ginny’s reflection, her long red hair hanging in soft waves and the fabric of her pale gold silk dress hugging her curves perfectly. The past few years had treated her well, and she looked every bit the star Quidditch player she was.

“Hey there, Harry.” Ginny walked further into the kitchen, the heels of her shoes clacking softly on the worn floor.

Harry turned to look at her, the real her. She was beautiful, stunning really. He could hardly believe that they’d once been a couple. That seemed like a different life now. “Hey.”

“Things have been so crazy the past few days,” she stood in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her, “we haven’t really gotten to catch up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry leaned back and held onto the counter. “It’s like cleaning Grimmauld Place all over again.”

Ginny laughed and Harry smiled. Even though they’d broken up, things were still so easy with her.

“I just wanted to check in, see how things are going for you.” Ginny’s voice was soft and concerned.

“Things are…going.” Harry said with a sigh.

“Well, that is an improvement.” She shrugged and echoed his sigh. “At the very least.”

Harry hadn’t thought of it that way. But now that she’d said it, he couldn’t help but agree. A few months ago he’d been nothing more than a depressed fungus growing out of his couch. Now? He was a professor and somewhat functional. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. “That’s true.”

“Well,” Ginny said, looking at Harry with kindness in her eyes. “I should get back out there.” She motioned to the dining room with her head, causing the bright red locks of her hair to waver like flame. “You’re free to keep hiding out.” Harry’s opened his mouth to protest, but Ginny smiled widely. “You secret is safe with me.”

Harry, realizing he’d been caught, closed his mouth. “Thanks. It was all just a bit… _much_.”

“I totally understand.” Before leaving she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, which Harry returned. 

Being in Ginny’s arms felt like coming home. The way her body fit against his, hips to stomach, chest to chest felt so wonderfully familiar that Harry felt himself slip back. He felt like a teenager again, inhaling the heady floral scent that screamed _Ginny_ through his entire body.

Standing there, wrapped in her embrace, Harry forgot about Jude, forgot about Draco… Forgot about _men_. All that mattered was Ginny in his arms and his lips against hers…

Before Harry knew what he was doing, he found himself with mouth pressed against Ginny’s, both of them frozen in shock. Unlike when he was younger, the kiss didn’t feel him with the giddy excitement of two people finding and exploring one another. It didn’t make his heart race, or his hands shake. 

In fact…it left him feeling nothing at all.

It left him empty.

There was no magic left in their kisses. There was no joy to be found in her lips.

Feeling ashamed and embarrassed, Harry wished that he had a Time Turner so that he could go back five minutes and forget what had happened. But as it was, he was frozen, his mouth pressed lifelessly against an equally awkward Ginny.

Harry didn’t know what to do, how to recover. So he stood there, praying for a miracle which came in the form of Ginny’s had pressed against his chest. She pushed him away gently, clearing her throat as she did. When they were an arm’s length apart, she held up a slender hand, a small diamond sparkling on her finger. “I’m engaged.”

Before Harry could even think, he blurted out, “I’m gay.” He felt the absolute truth of the words the second they left his mouth, but he was still terrified of how Ginny would react.

Ginny smiled at him softly. “I know.”

“Wait…” Harry’s head spun in confusion. “You know?”

“Of course.” She dropped her hand from his chest. “It was fairly obvious.”

Harry could barely believe what he was hearing. Had everyone known that he was gay before even _he_ did? “Is that why we split up?”

Pressing her lips together, Ginny tilted her head from side to side, considering the question. “Yes and no.” She pursed her lips again, thoughts clearly running through her mind. “Things weren’t going so well, and then Jude showed up…” Ginny’s eyes seemed focused on a moment in time that was far away. “I think things were coming to an end anyway. But yes, in the end, it was because I realized that you were gay.”

Harry didn’t know what to do, what to say. He’d always thought they’d broken up because they didn’t love each other anymore. He’d never thought it was because Ginny realized something about him that he didn’t have the faintest idea about. 

Ginny’s smile faded. “I wish you’d had more time with him.”

Harry’s heart dropped to his stomach. “So do I.”

Ginny smiled at his sadly and turned to leave. Before she made it through the door, Harry called out to her. “Ginny?”

Her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to look at him, a vision in gold. “Yes?”

“How long have you been engaged?” He hoped that it was recent and that he hadn’t alienated her as well as everyone else.

She beamed at him. “A few months now. I thought about telling you, but…”

“I’m sorry.” The words didn’t mean much, but then and there, they were all he had. He would make this up to her, to everyone, eventually.

“It's fine, Harry.” Her voice was sincere and Harry knew that she meant it.

She slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Christmas Eve found Harry crowded around the Wesley’s dinner table. People were packed together so tightly that their elbows and knees touched, and there were so many plates and dishes of food that not a single bit of the wooden tabletop could be seen. It was uncomfortable, loud, packed and sweaty, but it was also perfect.

Harry could not have felt more at home, or more loved than he did there, squashed between Ron and George, laughing and waiting for someone to pass him the potatoes. (If there were any left by the time the dish got to him, that was.)

After dinner they’d crowded into the living room to sip cocoa and listen to Celestina Warbeck warbling from the wireless. It was clear from the tone of her voice that she was getting on in years, but Molly still sniffled as she sang _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_. Harry laughed to himself when he saw Fleur and Victoire slip into the kitchen under the guise of “Helping to clean up zee mess.” 

After he program ended, Molly gathered up the empty mugs and headed into the kitchen, wiping her eyes with her apron as she did. One by one, the Weasleys went off to bed, yawning and stretching as they headed up the narrow staircase. 

It was just about midnight when Harry realized that he and Hermione were the last ones in the room. Harry was shocked to find himself alone with her. He had barely seen her out of Ron’s presence over the last week. Not that he could blame either of them; they were enjoying being in love and engaged. It was wonderful to see them so happy. So why weren’t they together now?

Still confused, Harry tried to think of something to say to her. Should he excuse himself for bed? Should he ask her about how her wedding plans were coming along? He just felt so….awkward. It was ridiculous to feel that way around Hermione, of all people. But he couldn’t help it; from the way she was sitting on the couch, fidgeting with her cocoa mug, Harry could tell that something was up. And her anxiety was infecting him as well. He wished that she’d just say what was on her mind already. 

“Harry.” Even though it wasn’t, his name came out sounding like a question and he felt himself tense up. Hermione was looking at him with an unreadable expression in her warm brown eyes

Harry’s stomach turned at the sight. “Yeah?”

Before saying anything else, Hermione set her mug on the coffee table and stood up. Harry watched her, his confusion growing. What was she doing? Standing in front of him, she stuck out her hand for him to take. “Come with me…” She waited patiently.

Harry’s entire body tensed. He wanted to ask her what was going on, refuse to go with her until she answered. But he knew that she wouldn’t tell him, that she’d insist he go with her. So he said nothing at all, just took her hand and rose from his place in the floor.

Without a word, she walked him down the hallway and through the kitchen, leading them out into the Weasleys’ back yard. It was just after midnight now and Harry could faintly hear the sound of church bells in the distance. Christmas Eve had become Christmas morning, and Harry’s world was covered in a thick blanket of white snow. The cold quickly bit at Harry’s cheeks and ears as large, fluffy snowflakes landed, kissing him with their chill. It was a beautiful, quiet night, but Harry didn’t understand. 

Hands still clutched together, Harry turned to ask Hermione what they were doing outside. But what he found there surprised him…

Ginny, Ron and Neville were standing on either side of the door, their backs pressed against the house. They were all wearing heavy coats and scarves and it was obvious from the red in their cheeks that they’d been waiting for a little while. Before he could say anything, Hermione gently let go of Harry and reached out for the coats that Neville was now offering her. She handed one to Harry before quickly shoving on her own. Speechless, Harry did the same.

“Mate.” Ron stepped away from the wall, smiling sadly at Harry.

Ginny didn’t speak, just smiled softly at him.

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. He still didn’t understand.

Neville was the last to come forward, his gaze much surer than Ron or Hermione’s. “Harry.”

Seeing Neville, thinking of all the strings he’d pulled, still bothered Harry. But if he’d made a special trip to the Burrow on Christmas Eve, Harry knew that whatever was going on was important.

“Harry…” Hermione gave a wave of her wand and small burst erupted. When he looked up, he saw a bunch of small lights hovering above them and casting them in a soft glow. “We know it’s a few days…” Her voice shook and Ron wrapped his arm around her. “A few days before the anniversary of Jude’s death. But…” Her voice cracked with emotion.

Harry’s heart clenched in his chest. 

“We wanted to do something tonight.” Neville finished. “To mark the occasion.”

Again, Harry tried to speak. But his throat had tightened painfully, so painfully that he could barely breathe. 

Ginny gently nudged him with her elbow, and for the first time he noticed that she was holding five shot glasses and a red bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky. Jude’s favorite. 

Harry took the glass she offered him, staring at it as she passed them around to everyone else. Once they all had one, she cleared her voice. Harry looked up and found her bright brown eyes locked on him. “We’re here tonight to remember a friend and to say goodbye to him.” 

She tapped the bottle with her wand and the cork came out with a small _pop_. Another wave and it floated in the air before her. She held out her shot glass and the bottle filled it to just below the brim. “Jude, thank you for always bringing Harry home alive.” Her hand began to tremble slightly, but she didn’t spill a single drop of the alcohol. Harry’s breath caught when he noticed a faint sparkle of tears in her eyes.

The bottle moved to Neville next, filling his waiting shot glass, just it had Ginny’s. “Jude, thank you for always listening and offering your opinions. Even if you didn’t really understand the subject matter.” Ron snorted and Harry found his lip twitch just a bit. Jude had never been able to turn Neville away, no matter _what_ the subject was.

Next the bottle moved to Ron, who held his own glass out. As the bottle poured, he said, “Jude, mate, I miss having you round to watch muggle football with, even if it is rubbish.” Harry heard Hermione hiss _“Ron”_ under her breath.

It was now Hermione’s turn and Harry found himself watching her anxiously. He’d learned so much in the past few minutes. He’d known that Jude had been welcomed into their little group with open arms, but Harry hadn’t known about the deeper intricacies of their individual friendships. 

Hermione held out her glass, but when it started to shake so bad that the bottle couldn’t pour, Ron put his hand around hers to steady it. It was a sweet gesture, and he couldn’t have been happier for them. “Jude…” Hermione’s voice shook as she tried to hold back her tears. “Thank you for your kindness and wisdom. And for reminding me that love can be found in the most unexpected of places.” Finally giving into her tears, Hermione leaned her back against Ron, who kissed the top of her heard gently.

The bottle moved to Harry and waited. He held his hand out, but he couldn’t speak. What was he supposed to say? How could he _possibly_ sum up what Jude had meant to him in a single sentence? It was like trying to cram a lifetime of happiness, sorrow, joy and tribulation into the blink of an eye.

It just couldn’t be done.

His friends waited patiently, whispering to him that it was alright, that everything would be fine. In that moment, he loved them more than he thought was possible. He loved them so much he thought his heart might burst from the unbearable pain of it. 

Tightening his grip on the glass and watching the bottle pour the rich amber liquid into it, Harry remembered a conversation he’d had with Malfoy. “Jude…” He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat to stay down. “Thank you for being a great friend, a great partner and…” A stray tear slid down his cheek as he thought of Hermione urging him to think about his life, of Ginny’s confessions in the kitchen earlier, of the kiss he’d shared with Jude. “A great love.”

Much to his surprise, Ron muttered, “Here. Here.” And Neville squeezed his shoulder. 

Harry was about to raise the shot to his mouth when he heard Hermione’s quavering voice sing, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,” she paused taking a deep breath that exhaled on a plume of frigid air. “And never brought to mind?”

On the next line, Neville and Ron joined in, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne.” Harry listened to them sing, off key and full of emotion. His heart clenched in his chest as he looked around the circle. He’d never seen or heard anything so beautiful. 

Ginny came to stand next to him, her hand finding his and her voice joining in, “For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne.” 

Harry wanted to add his voice, to join in, but he couldn’t. So he listened to them, taking in each grief-stricken face, loving each and every one of them for sticking with him and putting up with him for the past year. “We'll take a cup o' kindness yet…”

The night around them seemed to grieve with them, the falling snowflakes heaven’s own tears in the midst of the frozen night. Deep down, Harry could feel Jude with them, could feel his presence within his soul. “For auld lang syne.” The song ended; in its place was the sound of winter’s silence.

For a few moments they just stood together, content to be with one another, content to be alive. The white puffs of their breath mingled together, uniting them in a hazy fog. 

All too soon, Ron broke the spell with a subtle cough. “To Jude.” He raised his glass of firewhisky into the air, waiting for everyone else to follow. Once they’d all lifted the shot glasses, they said to whoever was listening, “To Jude,” each downing the alcohol.

The firewhiskey burned Harry’s throat as it went down, making him cough just a little. Personally, he’d never liked the stuff for that exact reason. Jude had tried to teach him how to not just drink it but savor it once, but Harry had never been able to enjoy it. And from the coughing he heard about him, he wasn’t the only one.

In the middle of their little circle, the bottle of Ogden’s Old poured one for Jude into the snow. 

They all watched as the amber liquid trickled out of the bottle before sinking into the snow at their feet. One it was done, the bottle made its way back into Ginny’s hand. She corked it before turning to Hermione and nodding.

Pulling herself from Ron’s arms, Hermione took a small square out her pocket. With a tap from her wand it grew to the size of a shirt box and it was wrapped just as garishly as Harry remembered. “You asked me to get this from your flat, Harry.” He stared at the gift, remembering the Weird Sisters shirt inside of it. It was shoddily folded inside of the box and Harry took a moment to wonder how wrinkly it was after a year’s imprisonment.

Reaching out, he took the package and ran his hand over the red and green striped paper, his fingers catching in the sparkling bow. Before leaving Hermione’s flat the day he’d run from Hogwarts, he’d left her a note, asking her to bring it for him. At the time, he hadn’t known why, or what he was going to do with it. But now, with it in his hands, he knew. He eyed Hermione and nodded at her, knowing she’d understand.

Taking a deep breath, he felt the paper under his hands one last time, as everyone watched him. Before he could change his mind, he tossed it high into the air. With a quick wave of her wand, she blew the package to bits. But instead of showering them with scraps of flaming paper and cotton, a twinkling rain feel upon them. It was like standing in the middle of a firework, watching the tiny flecks sparkle and burn out all around them. 

It was beautiful. 

And heartbreaking.

But most importantly, it was done.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Ron, Hermione and Ginny filed back into the warmth of the house, but Harry called Neville back.

“Yes, Harry?” Neville’s round cheeks were red from cold, but he waited patiently just the same.

“Did you know…” Harry felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. As he’d watched his friends and thought about just how much Neville had done, he’d started to wonder. “Did you know that Malfoy and I would… That we’d…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. After all, nothing felt right. Were the friends? Were they more? Were they something else altogether?

“What I knew,” Neville looked at him very seriously, “was that you were both in need of someone.”

Harry didn’t know what he’d expected, or hoped to hear. 

“Anything that has happened between the two of you,” Neville’s eyes twinkled merrily, “is all you.” Not waiting for Harry to respond, Neville made his way back into the house, presumably to say his goodbyes. 

Speechless, Harry stood in the snow, thinking. He’d been _so_ mad at Neville for plotting and scheming behind his back. But now that he thought about it, he couldn’t be angry with him. If it weren’t for Neville, Malfoy would never have helped him with his dreams, shared morning coffee with him, ate lunch and dinner with him.

Without Neville, Draco Malfoy would never have become an important part of Harry’s life.

A life without Malfoy. 

It seemed like impossibly horrible thought now.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

“Hey…” Jude smiled softly, a touch of sadness tinting his blue eyes.

Harry looked at him, taking in his faded Beatles t-shirt, the golden hair that hung loose around his shoulders, the smile that normally lit up his face. He looked so healthy, so alive. “Hi.”

Jude reached out for Harry’s hand, taking it gently in his own. There was a reverent sadness in the touch that stirred something deep within Harry. “You seem good.”

Watching the fingers twist together, Harry wondered what it might have been like to really hold hands with Jude. There was such strength in his partner’s grip that he felt safe with him. Harry supposed that was probably why they had made such great partners. They trusted each other, were always there for each other. “I’m ok.”

“Better than ok, I think.” Jude lifted Harry’s hand and pressed his forehead against it. When he looked up at Harry again, his eyes were sadder than Harry could ever remember seeing them. 

Harry’s heart clenched when he realized what the look on Jude’s face must mean. “This is the last time I’m going to see you, isn’t it?” He prayed that Jude would tell him no, that it wasn’t, but Harry knew otherwise. 

Jude nodded and tried to smile. “Yeah, it is.”

Swallowing deeply, Harry nodded. He knew it was right, but he didn’t want this to be the end. “I don’t what to lose you.”

Jude reached out and ruffled Harry’s hair. “Harry, you should know better than anyone that we are never truly alone.”

Harry thought of his parents, of Sirius and Lupin and all of the others he’d lost during the war. They may have been dead, but he still carried them in his soul. “I know.”

“See?” Jude smiled weakly. “Nothing to worry about.” 

Harry laughed a little, trying to hold back the tears burning behind his eyes. 

“Just remember this…” Jude took Harry’s face in his hands, his normally sparkling blue eyes unusually serious. “I loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you, Harry Potter.”

Harry pressed his lips together so hard they hurt. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t even bring himself to open his mouth for fear of what would come out.

“But now it’s time for you to move on, ok?” Jude’s voice sounded tight, like he was holding back his own emotion.

Harry nodded. It was all he could do.

“Good.” All traces of sadness gone, Jude’s face split into the wide smile Harry had loved so much. 

Terrified that he’d miss his chance again, Harry forced himself to speak. “I loved you too, you know.” His voice cracked with emotion, but Harry didn’t care. He wanted to tell Jude how he he’d really felt, if only once.

Jude just said, “I know,” before leaning forward and pressing his lips ever so softly against Harry’s.

Just as Harry melted into the kiss, Jude exploded into a million sparkling stars that rained down upon Harry. As he stuck out his hand to catch them, Harry thought about the gift Hermione had cast spell on earlier that night. And once again, he thought of standing in the middle of a beautiful firework, the twinkling bits falling around him, but not hurting him. 

One of the sparkling flecks landed on Harry’s outstretched palm. He watched it glitter and twinkle before disappearing forever.

When Harry awoke on Christmas morning, he was filled with a sense of joy and contentment that he hadn’t felt in a _very_ long time.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry spent the rest of the holiday stuffing himself with Molly’s cooking, playing side-along Quidditch with Ron, Ginny and Charlie and joining in a huge snowball fight that ended with Arthur on his back, laughing jovially as Molly tried to see if he was ok.

It couldn’t have been better, but as the days passed, Harry realized that he was missing something…

_Someone._

He hadn’t heard from Malfoy since leaving for the Burrow. Harry had just assumed that Malfoy had returned home to spend the holidays with his parents. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. It wasn’t that Harry thought Malfoy didn’t love his parents, but for some strange reason, Harry couldn’t see him returning to the halls of Malfoy Manor for a holiday. 

Harry wondered and he worried about him even as he reveled in the Weasley’s company. 

The one-year anniversary of Jude’s death came went. Harry had expected to feel terrible, to sink back into the depression he’d lived in before going to Hogwarts. But he didn’t. 

He spent the day with Ron and Hermione, asking them about their upcoming wedding, and asking about what else he’d missed in the past year. He’d been a terrible friend to them, and to everyone else, but he was going to change that.

They ate lunch and dinner together, reminiscing about their time at Hogwarts and talking about what they were up to now. Harry told them about Meeks, who, as it turned out, loved classes, but hated homework. (Hermione suggested assigning an older student to help him study.) He also told them about his pitiful attempts to create house unity. They laughed until they cried and at the end of dinner, they toasted Jude.

Harry didn’t tell them anything about Malfoy though. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed or anything like that, he just didn’t know where they stood himself. He wanted to have some sort of idea what was going on between them before he brought the matter up to his friends. He was fairly certain that Hermione knew _something_ was going on, but Ron was another story altogether. Things were confusing enough without adding them into the mix.

In the end, the day felt like a celebration of life and friends, rather than the mourning of a death. Harry was sure that Jude would have been happy about that.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

A few days before the end of the holidays, Harry decided to head back to Hogwarts. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being with the Weasley’s, but he wanted to see Malfoy. He didn’t know exactly what he planned to do when he saw him, but…Harry knew that he needed to be back there. He could feel it in his bones.

He’d told everyone that he needed to get back in order to start planning lessons for the new term. Hermione was the only one that didn’t seem to totally believe him. 

She sought him ought as he was packing his things. 

“Harry?” She stepped tentatively into Ron’s room and Harry instantly knew why she was there. “Can I have a word?”

He wasn’t really in the mood to talk to her about Malfoy, but he couldn’t turn her away. “Sure.”

Hermione sat on the edge of Ron’s bed and watched as Harry continued to pack his things. “I know why you’re going back.”

Harry decided to play the fool. If she wanted to have this conversation, he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “To plan lessons. You know that I’m not on top of them. Or my grading, for that matter.”

“Don’t play thick, Harry.” He’d obviously hit a nerve. “You’re going back for Malfoy.”

“So what if I am?” Harry threw a pair of balled up socks in his bag. 

“You can’t _trust_ him.” Hermione’s voice was pleading. “How can you forget what he did to us when we were in school?”

“I haven’t forgotten, Hermione.” He put his hands on his hips and took a deep, steadying breath to try and calm himself. “I remember _everything_ he did to us.” And he did, he remembered every horrible thing that Malfoy had done to them when they were kids, and during the war. But… “I also know what he’s done for me now. Who he is _now_. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I am all for forgiving people, Harry. But _not_ Malfoy.” Her eyes were defiant. “There are some things that I can’t forget about.”

Deep down, he understood what she was saying, he really did. In fact, he’d felt the same exact way when Neville had first mentioned taking a potion from Malfoy. But things had changed, _he_ had changed. And that was something that Hermione didn’t seem to understand. Not yet, anyway.

Harry considered his best friend for a moment. Her legs were crossed and her foot jiggled angrily. He felt exhausted. He didn’t want to fight with her, but there was no way they were going to see eye-to-eye on this. Not today, anyway. So he said the _only_ think he could think of. “Do you trust _me_?”

“I…” Her foot stopped shaking abruptly and her eyes widened in shock. “Well, of course I do, Harry.”

He knew she’d say that. “Then trust me,” he pleaded.

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it before anything came out. 

Harry hadn’t won the fight, but he knew that he’d bested her for now. She might not like his relationship with Malfoy, but there was nothing he could do about that. 

Hermione stood up and walked towards him. He could see the wheels of her mind working, trying to come up with something to come back at him with. And Harry had no doubt that she would eventually. “Here.” She held out a stack of muggle letters that Harry hadn’t noticed before. “I picked up your mail when I stopped by your flat.”

“Thanks.” He took the envelopes and tossed them into his bag. He’d look at them when he got back to Hogwarts. 

“Well,” Hermione’s tone was short and irritated. Harry knew that she was angry that she hadn’t convinced him about Malfoy, but he couldn’t help that. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Harry nodded. He may not have been able to help the fact that she was angry, but hated making her upset. 

Before walking out of the room, she said, “Make sure to say goodbye before you leave.” 

Harry didn’t respond, just turned back to his packing. He was about to toss in another pair of socks when he saw a shiny gold envelope sticking out of the pile of letters. Picking it up, Harry realized that it was a Christmas card from Dudley. It was only then, as he was ripping it open, that Harry realized he’d totally forgotten about sending out cards of his own. 

Pulling the card out of the envelope, he promised himself that the next year would be different. He’d be a better friend, a better teacher…a better person. 

The front of the card was covered in white glittery snow and there was a family of three silver and black penguins standing in the middle of it. It was clear that they were meant to be Dudley, his wife and little Fern. Harry couldn’t help but snort. The penguins were short and round; much like Dudley’s little family. 

He flipped it open to read the greeting inside. It said, “Have a chilly Christmas!” And below it in a decidedly feminine hand was, “Love, Dudley, Clarissa and Fern.” Harry was about to shove the card back into its envelope when he noticed a small note written in Dudley’s messy scrawl on the opposite side of the message. He could only assume that Dudley had snuck it out of the pile before his wife could seal the envelope. What he read there caused his stomach to drop. “Fern expelled from Miss Dennings’ School for Exceptional girls for…you know what. She’ll start your school after the holidays.” There was nothing else, no further explanation. Harry groaned - he did _not_ want to have to deal with Fern Dursley on top of everything else. For the moment, he decided to put it out of his mind. He had much more important things to focus on, after all. 

Throwing the last of his things into the bag, Harry closed it and threw it over his shoulder. As he walked out of Ron’s room, he took a quick look back, wondering if would look the same on his next visit. He hoped so, but he didn’t count on it. 

Bounding down the steps and through the living room, Harry said his goodbyes to George, Charlie, Bill, Fleur, Victoire and Percy. When he stepped into the kitchen, he was practically knocked over by the large packages of leftovers and baked goods that Mrs. Weasley shoved into his arms. She fussed over him, telling how to heat up this or that and making him promise to come and visit soon, which Harry happily did. After a hug and a quick kiss, he exchanged handshakes and pleasant wishes with Arthur.

The only two people left waiting to say goodbye were Ron and Hermione. Ginny, Hermione explained, had had to leave early; the Holyhead Harpies were set to play a special match against Puddlemore United for charity. 

Ron pulled Harry into a quick hug, thumping him on his back. When he released Harry, he reached out and shook his hand. “Well mate, it’s good to see you looking better.” From the look on Ron’s face, Harry could tell that he meant it. “And you’re my best man, yeah? For the wedding?” 

Thrilled by the request, Harry’s face spilt into a wide smile. “Yeah. Of course!” 

Ron nodded, as if that settled everything. 

He half expected for Hermione to shed a few tears or to at least look upset to see him leaving. Instead…she looked pensive, their conversation obviously not forgotten about yet. He watched her, not knowing what to do. When she put her arms around him in a hug, Harry relaxed, just a bit. The hug was quick, to the point, and the next thing Harry knew he was being released. Before she let go of him though, their eyes met. Hers very clearly said, “This isn’t over yet, Harry.”

Harry didn’t say anything, just returned her look. He wasn’t going to give in on this. When he turned back to the group, he made sure there was a smile on his face. “Well…” He looked at them all in turn, his heart swelling with love for them, for his family. They’d gone through so much together and he wished that he could really and truly thank him for everything they’d done for him. Not just this past year, but for most of his life. He would find a way, eventually. Grabbing a pinch of floo powder, Harry tossed it into the fireplace and said, “Hogwarts. My room,” before he stepped into the emerald flames, the Burrow disappearing behind him in a swirl of green.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Harry stepped out of the grate and back into his little sitting room, happy to be home. He loved the Burrow, but in the space of a few months, Hogwarts, and the three little rooms he’d been assigned, had become home. Again.

Being careful not to get too much ash on the rug, Harry set his bag on the floor and ran his wand over his clothes, siphoning off the dust. He thought about putting his things away, of freshening up and changing his clothes. But the thought of Malfoy, alone in the dungeons, quickly changed his mind. 

Not stopping to think, Harry rushed to his door, but a flash of blue caught his eye before he made it through. 

Sitting on one of the small, spindle-legged tables next to the arm chairs was a sapphire blue bottle of Madame Rosmerta’s best mead. There was a small silver ribbon tying a card with a scrawling M on the front attached to the neck of it. 

Harry instantly recognized it as the half-empty bottle from the night he and Malfoy had graded papers together. The night Malfoy had kissed him. He’d always wondered if Malfoy had truly forgotten about that. Harry had hoped that he hadn’t forgotten, but the blond had seemed so aloof afterwards, so disinterested. It seemed almost impossible that Malfoy did remember.

As he reached out to pick up the bottle, Harry’s hand began to tremble slightly. It made him feel ridiculous, like a child going after his first crush. But in some ways, Harry was. 

Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Harry opened the small card. Inside, it read, “Here’s to remembering. Draco.” As his eyes took in the message again and again, Harry laughed to himself. 

Bottle still in hand, Harry rushed out of his room and towards the dungeons. Along the way he passed a few students who gave him weird looks for running. One older student even yelled out, “No running in the halls, Professor Potter!” Harry just laughed, fueled on by their reactions.

When he finally skidded into the dungeons corridor, Harry leaned against the wall next to place where he knew Draco’s door was. With his back pressed against the cold stones, he leaned forward, hands on his knees and tried to force his breathing to slow. His chest rose and fell in sharp gasps and a stitch in his side screamed out in pain. 

Harry’s panting echoed through the halls. He tried to come up with something to do or say when he saw Malfoy, but nothing seemed right. He wanted too…

He wanted too…

Merlin, he wanted to _everything_. 

But first, Harry needed to find out where things stood between them. As he got his breathing, but not his heartbeat, back under control, Harry remembered a conversation that he and Malfoy had shared in the dead of night. It seemed like ages ago, that he had stood in Malfoy’s dark bedroom, watching angry sea creatures swim by his tiny window. Things were so different now, _he_ was so different now. 

That night, Harry had asked Malfoy why he’d decided to come back to Hogwarts. Malfoy had told him that it was because of his family’s fortune. Harry hadn’t believed him then, and he didn’t believe him now.

Taking a final deep breath, Harry stepped in front of Malfoy’s doorway and called out his name. It took longer than normal for Malfoy to respond and Harry was stuck by the horrifying thought that _maybe_ Malfoy had gone home after all. But after calling out again, Harry saw a long, pale hand appear through the door. Harry didn’t think, didn’t hesitate, just took hold and walked through the barrier. 

Once inside, Malfoy didn’t let go and neither did Harry. “I thought you weren’t going to be back until after the New Year.” Malfoy didn’t phrase it as a question, his silvery eyes searching Harry’s face from behind his spectacles. The blond was dressed in black trousers and soft looking grey V-neck sweater. Harry had never realized just how handsome Malfoy was. Yes, his jaw was a touch pointy and his cheekbones sharp, but he was so…striking. He was tempted to lean in and capture Malfoy’s mouth then and there, but he didn’t. He had to know first.

Their hands still clutched together, Harry took a step closer to Malfoy. “Changed my mind.” The breathing he’d tried so hard to slow began to speed up again, coming in short, sharp bursts. Harry prayed that Malfoy couldn’t see the change in his breathing, but he didn’t count on it. He swallowed, “I need to ask you something.” 

It was Malfoy’s turn to swallow. “Oh?” His voice was low, so low that if Harry had been a step further away from Malfoy, he wouldn’t have heard it.

“Why did you _really_ get clean?” Harry instantly hated himself for phrasing it like that, but he couldn’t help it. He _needed_ to know. “I know it wasn’t because of your family fortune.” 

Malfoy stared at him for a long time, his expression devoid of any emotion. For a moment, Harry thought he’d crossed the line and screwed things up. He was just about to turn around and leave when Malfoy finally spoke. “I was tired.” He pressed his eyes together so tightly that Harry could see the subtle beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes. “Tired of being alone.” Malfoy looked at him defiantly, like he expected Harry to mock him for admitting that he needed other people. 

Harry didn’t say anything, just nodded. He understood the pain of soul-sucking loneliness. He understood what it was like to ache for the slightest touch. 

Before Harry could stop himself, he blurted out, “Why did you want to forget?” He held the half empty bottle up, the silver bow shaking gently as he did. 

For a moment, Malfoy looked like he wanted to run. But he lifted his chin, reminding Harry of his arrogance as a child. It almost made him smile. “I thought that…” His eyes flickered away from Harry’s face, searching the room for some unknowable thing.

“What,” Harry pleaded. “What did you think?”

Malfoy stopped searching the room and looked directly at him, his silvery eyes alight. “That you didn’t care. That you didn’t want -”

“I want,” Harry said so fervently that he could feel the tips of his ears burning red. “I can’t tell you how much I _want_.”

Malfoy’s chest began to rise and fall in rapid rhythm with Harry’s, but when he spoke, his voice was the essence of calm. “You terrify me, Harry Potter.”

The words sunk into Harry’s heart and soul. If only Malfoy knew just how Harry felt, how terrified of _this_ he was. Dropping the heavy bottle to the floor with a _thunk_ , Harry gave in to his desire and cupped Draco’s cheek. Staring into Draco’s unreadable eyes, Harry decided that one confession deserved another. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Once the words were out of his mouth, Harry felt naked, exposed, Malfoy could so easily break him in that moment. He pressed his eyes shut in an effort to push away how bare he felt. 

With his free hand, Malfoy reached up and held onto Harry’s elbow. “That’s ok.”

Relief filling him, Harry opened his eyes to find Malfoy staring back intently. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly remembered Neville’s warning. “I…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Malfoy smiled and there was a subtle trace of sadness in it. “Can’t break what’s already been broken.” Truth be told, they were both broken, but maybe, just _maybe_ that’s why they seemed to work so well together…

Because they understood each other in a way that others didn’t.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, how to respond. He felt like he should say something about how great Malfoy was doing or about how far they’d both come. But everything seemed so trite, so cliché. So Harry didn’t bother with words that would be meaningless to both of them. He didn’t try to be comforting or supportive. Instead, he leaned forward and _finally_ pressed his mouth against Malfoy’s.

It wasn’t magic, or heaven, or fireworks, or anything like that.

What it was, was two broken pieces searching for their other half. Maybe they would find that in each other, find that they were a perfect fit, their jagged edges lining up perfectly. 

But then again, maybe they wouldn’t. 

Only time would tell.

End.

**  
Author Notes   
**  
~ Thank you so much to Erin, my kind, patient, understanding beta. You are amazing.  
~ A huge thank you to pratyeka for going over this story with the finest of fine toothed combs. I appreciate every last capital letter and comma. You are amazing. :)  
~ The lyrics to “Auld Lang Syne” are by Robert Burns.  
~ The truffle macaroni and cheese dish Malfoy is talking about is called “Truffle Mac” and is from Noodles and Co. It is AMAZING. So is their garlic bread. :P  
~ The line "Now, all you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous…” is from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_. Just in case you didn’t know. ;) 

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/12551.html).


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